


Against All Odds

by AngstPhilosophy, RandomRingWriter118, Thatoneperson98, theparadoxicalfox, TrulyMightyPotato, writtenFIRES



Series: Royal Flush [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 1923, Didn't mean to make an OC, Everyone is scared of Molly, Except JP, Gen, If Molly sics Wade on you you're in for a big pun-ishment, Jack is a boss, Jason was too wet for MatPat's liking, Mark just wants to be friends, Mobsters, PJ the noodle, Prohibition, also Mark has his accidental model fetus hair, blame jason, felix is an egg, now he's dead, the Boston Bumblers, the dates actually refers to when the articles were created, tyler is a bimbo, with mob bosses, writing about the 20's just in time for the 20's to roll around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 73
Words: 223,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10118198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstPhilosophy/pseuds/AngstPhilosophy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomRingWriter118/pseuds/RandomRingWriter118, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatoneperson98/pseuds/Thatoneperson98, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadoxicalfox/pseuds/theparadoxicalfox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenFIRES/pseuds/writtenFIRES
Summary: One speakeasy. Two detectives. Three mobs. Everyone and everything is connected. Will Boston survive?





	1. “Hooch Heir has Heart for Poor Pooches”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We update it with every new chapter!

####  _ Tuesday, September 11 1923 _

_ Felix Kjellberg, owner of the newly renamed Pewds Booze company, rescued two dogs from an abusive racing ring on Monday evening. It started out as a normal night as the stone-cold giggle juice egg was making his usual rounds on the streets of Boston. “Us big cheese, y’know, we gotta stretch our legs sometimes. Get out of the house. Breathe in that dirty Boston air. It’s the berries. It contributes to our longevity,” Kjellberg says. _

_ Barks and shouts filled the chilly air yesterday evening. Not too uncommon, and any other person might have ignored it on such a night, but not Kjellberg. He is the Golden Hero of stray dogs. He followed the sounds to their origin and found the truly heart-wrenching sight of a pair of pugs thrown out of the horrible establishment, bruised and battered. _

_ Being a decent human being, Kjellberg swooped in and took those two pups to a significantly safer home. The bulls are currently looking into which hoods did this, though the likely culprit is a new dog racing ring forming underground. Sources on the streets claim that they’re a new group gaining popularity for their intense, savage races and risky stakes. While there is no solid evidence that connects them with any of the gangs, there are rumours of the Irish gang’s involvement in many other illegal dog racing joints. _

_ This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil. _

_ Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column! _

At this last implication, a cloud passed over Jack’s face. His grip on the newspaper tightened. Robin, the newsie who’d sold him the paper, became slightly worried. However (as fast as it came) his composure relaxed, and Robin wondered if he was just imagining things. 

“Dog racing, huh?” Jack’s tone had a hint of barely restrained anger. 

Robin shook his head. “Rotten potatoes, those McLaughlin Boys.”

Jack folded the paper with deliberate precision. “Seems so.” He fished a coin out of his pocket and tossed it to Robin. “Get yourself something nice, okay?”

Jack tucked his newly acquired paper under his arm and walked off with hands crammed into his pockets, hiding his tightening fists.

He had a record to set straight.


	2. “Potatoes Pound Perilous Pooch Pikers”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the Spotify playlist that we made for this fic! We're trying to update it for every chapter release.
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V  
> New tunes  
> Beale Street Mama  
> Let's Misbehave  
> Rose Room

####  **_Wednesday, September 12 1923_ **

_ The establishment for the illegal dog races (previously reported, read Tuesday’s column for the full story) was found in ruins this morning. Local reports describe shouting and gunfire in the late hours, but nobody saw who or what caused the commotion.  _

_ The property was searched early this morning. Evidence found in the ruined kennels showed poor conditions and clear animal neglect. The entire building was dusted with gunpowder, and many empty shells and the occasional ciggy lay around. No surrounding apartments were damaged. _

_ In the middle of the destroyed circuit was a celtic knot of carefully arranged ropes tied around the throats of several bodies. This is the clearest message the McLaughlin Boys have sent to date: Don’t mess with what belongs to the mob.  _

_ There was a sole survivor of the night, a brutally beaten man who kept swearing about the ‘McSlaughters’ and their “potato-sized brains and pocket-sized guns”. Boston’s bulls have yet to release any more information on the man. _

_ The future safety of racing dogs in this lovely city has never been brighter! _

_ This has been a life in the day of Dan and Phil. _

_ Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column! _

The restaurant had officially closed its doors an hour ago, and the single waiter there finished wiping off the last table before giving the room a satisfied smile.

“Everything’s all ready, Mark.” He threw his cleaning rag over his shoulder, walking over to the windows where a blonde woman was drawing the heavy curtains closed before turning and looking over the interior.

“It looks good.”

“Nuh-uh-uh.” The man inspecting the musicians’ platform on the other side of the room waggled a finger at the waiter. “It’s Wilford.”

“Doors haven’t opened yet,” The woman started striding towards the bar on the far side of the room, “Means it’s still Mark.”

“Amy,  _ please _ .” Mark pouted, giving Amy a pained look.

Amy ignored him and turned to Ethan. “Go keep your eyes peeled for the Grumps.”

Ethan threw his cleaning rag onto the bar as he walked past. “I know the drill, okay? Where’s Tyler, by the way? Is the big, bad bimbo not coming in?”

“He’s in the basement,” Amy shrugged. “You know, like he’s supposed to be.”

Mark had started humming a tune as he took off his day suit and pulled on the brightly-colored suit jacket that identified him as Wilford, owner of the speakeasy ‘Freddy’s’.

The door to the back office opened, and another woman stepped out. “I’ve got all the receipts ready to go for the night.” 

“Thanks, Kathryn.” Mark pulled out a bit of his Wilford voice.

She nodded, then slipped back inside the room and closed the door.

Ethan walked back into the room, followed by a familiar crew of people. The Grumps: mercenaries for hire, tough and dangerous to most, but serving as bouncers and waiters every night Freddy’s was open. Mark had offered them money, but they’d refused and insisted they wanted to pay off their debt to him.

Only a few steps behind them were Mark’s regular music makers: Jack and PJ. It was a little tense, having an Irishman and a second-generation Italian immigrant in the same area all the time, but Mark was  _ moderately _ sure neither of them were involved in the mobs, so that was alright. 

Or so he hoped.

“Good evening, Wilford,” PJ greeted him smoothly. “How long until we open up?”

“Not too long now, I think.” Mark grinned widely. “You’ll have enough time to tune that instrument of yours.”

“It’ll be a ducky night.” Jack practically bounced as he walked over to the musicians’ platform. 

“Wouldn’t be Freddy’s otherwise.” Mark winked.

“Wilford, please.” Amy shook her head. “Stop teasing these dewdroppers.”

“You can’t  _ possibly _ think that  _ I _ would do  _ that _ ,” Mark drew out the words, all the while smiling at her.

Amy rolled her eyes.

“We’ll need to order more spices soon.” Tyler’s voice floated in from the back hallway before he walked into the room. 

“Well let me just ring up India then.” Amy sniped, giving a slight smirk.

Tyler didn’t so much as blink, merely took his regular place next to the bar, straightening his sleeve cuffs.

“Ooh, the big, bad bimbo has taken position.” Ethan grinned in their direction, and Mark began to hum again. After a few minutes, Jack and PJ joined in, and a soft winding tune began drifting around the building.

“We’re all ready to go.” Mark drawled. “Who’s on door duty?”

“Arin.” Amy polished up the bar counter, then nodded.

As usual, it took a while for the first customers to drift in. And as usual, Mark ended up joining in the music a bit with his old trumpet.

Then the music skipped. Just for a second: a single missed beat by both PJ and Jack.

Mark looked over to see a tall, blonde woman step into the room from the hallway door, with an even taller bearded man behind her. 

“I see you started without me, Wilford.” The woman definitely sounded amused as she made her way across the speakeasy.

Mark sent a small bow in her direction. “The paaarty can never start until youuu walk in, Madame Foxglove,” he drawled.

With a smirk, she waltzed over towards the counter like she owned the place. None of the regulars were too surprised. Molly—or Madame Foxglove, as everyone knew best to call her—was the boss of one of the biggest mobs in the city: Orchids on the Lam. Her game was mostly through her brothels and liquor; nevertheless she butted heads with rival gangs. She was courted by Wade, a humble construction worker who tended to do her dirty work. He was the brawn, she the brains, and everybody knew it.

They could be quite the fearsome duo when they wanted to be.

Now, though, as they took their seats, they were just here for another casual evening after dropping off the nightly shipment of liquor.

Mark set his trumpet aside and walked over to their table. Sometimes Molly had something to say about how Freddy’s was being run. He didn’t particularly care for her comments, but she was the one supplying the liquor, and he really didn’t want to get on her bad side.

“Jeremy’s getting the last of the new barrels in place now.” Molly barely looked at Mark as she spoke, instead making eye contact with Amy over at the bar. 

“He’s getting qu-iiite good at a life of criiiime, isn’t he?” Mark looked over to where a young man was sort of lurking in the shadows next to the entrance door, waiting for Molly and Wade to be finished with their socializing.

“He’s picking up on it quickly.” Wade nodded as Ethan gave him his regular drink. “He still makes mistakes, though.”

“He’s a  _ kid _ ,” Amy said flatly as she came over. “He shouldn’t be involved at all.”

“He wouldn’t have to be if his family was still alive,” Wade said bluntly, shrugging, “but that’s something we can’t change.”

Mark frowned at Wade. “You’re a sad, saaad man.”

Wade grinned at Mark. “Really, Wilford? I’m pretty sure I’m happy.”

Mark stared at Wade for a few moments before shaking his head and moving away from the table to talk to some of the new people who had found their way inside. 

It was almost midnight now, which meant—

A figure swept into the room, looking extremely proud of himself.

“Egg-celent to see you.” Wade’s voice sounded above the crowd.

Felix Kjellberg laughed and walked up to Mark. “Quite the crowd you’ve got here today, Wilford.” He smirked, looking around at everyone. “These are my kind of people.”

“Wellll, if they’re heeere, they’re not at home beee-ing wet blankets.”

Felix laughed again. “So I was thinking of having a poker tournament this weekend. It’s gonna be the cat’s meow.” He grinned at Mark. “What do you say to bringing your crew over to my place and joining in?”

“Whoooo else will be there?” Mark raised his eyebrows in a dramatic wiggle.

“Wade’s already agreed to come.” Felix glanced over at the table where Amy and Molly were chatting, and Wade was watching Molly with a soft smile on his face. “I’ll be asking those cats over there, the drummer and that bassist of yours, to join in. And those two reporters -- Dan and Phil. Their articles have been berries lately.” Felix paused. “Plus MatPat and his new partner, a fellow named Gar.”

Mark narrowed his eyes for a moment. “Sounds like a lot of wooden nickels banging around in a small bucket.” His ‘Wilford’ voice dropped for just a second.

“You’ll be fine. It’s just poker.”

Mark just looked at Felix, then shook his head. “I’llll talk it ooover with my baaaby.”

“Let me know.” Felix grinned and walked off, already talking to someone else. 

Mark glanced around Freddy’s, then paused and frowned, just for a moment, before walking over to the corner table.

“Evening, Bob.”

Bob slumped back in his chair, glancing to the shadows of the back hall entrance. Mark followed his gaze to see JP talking animatedly to Arin. 

“I’m a wet bull, aren’t I? A rotten cop.” Bob muttered softly. “We should have been there.”

“He’s safe now.” Mark took a seat next to Bob. “Foxglove takes care of her own.”

Bob frowned. “He should be with his family. His parents. Not mobsters.” 

“Well, I’ll level with you here, Bobby-boy.” Mark leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head to act as a support while he kicked his feet up onto the table. “The way I see it, you can’t really go back and change the past. What’s done is done, and staying all pickle about it isn’t really helping anybody. You messed up, and now you’re left holding your own bag. No one else gave it to you. And no one can take it away but yourself. Besides, look at him.”

Mark gestured vaguely in JP’s direction, and Bob swung around to get another look. The young man was laughing at something or other Arin had said, and Wade was calling out across the speakeasy, trying to get him to join them. Bob returned his gaze to his half-empty glass; expression pensive and troubled, so Mark continued.

“Looks pretty damn gay to me for being an orphan half-raised by mobsters. Moll and Wade are terrific people, Bob. You should know by now not to judge a cat on their lifestyle choices. I mean, just look at me! Head proprietor of a down and dirty speakeasy, right in the heart of Boston! But you know I’m not a hood or a ragamuffin. I’m just Mark. An overall g-” He stopped himself for a moment. “Just a guy trying to make people happy. Nothing wrong with that, right?” The last part was uttered to himself more than anything, but he started again with more vigor. “Of course, when the moon’s out I prefer to go by the name of Wiiiiilfooord.” Mark twirled an invisible mustache he didn’t have.

It was then when Amy came around, slapping at Mark’s feet with a newspaper. “Di Mi, Wilford, show some decency for your own joint! Dogs off the table. And, speaking of dogs…” She dumped the paper on the table, glancing over to a chuckling Bob. “I know you read that last article about the racing ring. You boys seen the latest headline, though, courtesy of the Boston Bumblers?”

Mark grabbed the newspaper and flipped to the appropriate page.

“Oh,” he muttered, “Oh no.”


	3. "Super Sleuths Strip Speakeasy"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We update it with every new chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:
> 
> Chinaman Blues - Erskine Tate’s orchestra  
> Beau Koo Jack- Louis Armstrong

####  **_Friday, September 14 1923_ **

_Another speakeasy closed its doors in South Boston for good when Detectives Matthew Patrick and Garuku Bluemoon exposed it as the hive of illegal activities that it was. Det. Patrick has shown himself to be an expert in uncovering these illegal joints, but this is Det. Bluemoon’s first after joining forces with Patrick four months ago._

_“The two have performed a public service,” said Thomas Fischbach, Associate Justice of South Boston. “And based on Patrick’s history, they’re likely to perform many more. The two partners have the potential to turn this city around.”_

_Sources have it that Det. Patrick has a personal vendetta against speakeasies, and not just for breaking the law. After his previous partner died from alcohol poisoning, he’s dedicated his life to ensure nobody else has to endure that same grief._

_This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil._

_Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column!_

Detective Bluemoon, more commonly known as Gar, dropped the newspaper on his desk and leaned back in his chair, watching MatPat pace their office. “Can we follow some other leads this time? Take a break from speakeasies? I want to spend time with Dante.”

MatPat shook his head. “You can walk your dog some other time. Just because we rooted out one speakeasy doesn’t mean the city’s dry. I’m already on the trail of another joint, and it’s a big one. I just know it.”

“Let me guess.” Gar crossed his arms. “You’ve got a theory.”

“Yes, I’ve got a theory. A detective theory.”

Gar buried his face in his hand. It was times like these he wondered why he’d ever wanted to work with MatPat. “Aren’t you going to ever spend time with your wife?”

“She understands.”

Gar sighed. They were going to be here a while. “Do you want to invite her here? Then at least you can be in the same room, even if you’re not talking to her.”

“I told you, she understands.”

“So do I. You don’t care about the city getting dry. You just want to get back at the people who offed Jason.” Gar leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “He wasn’t murdered, though. Plain old alcoholism killed him.”

“No, someone killed him.” MatPat asserted firmly. “He enjoyed his drinks, but it wasn’t that bad.”

Gar sighed and shook his head.

“Do you want to hear about my lead or not?” MatPat finally stopped pacing and leaned on his desk. There were, Gar noticed, a stack of familiar leather-bound journals sitting next to him.

Gar made a gesture for him to continue. It wasn’t like he could stop the older man; almost nothing could.

Except Stephanie. Gar might have to invite MatPat’s wife over himself, just to get a respite from all this.

“Rumors are that Foxglove has started getting into the speakeasy business.” MatPat drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment before pressing his fingers into a pointy hand triangle of thoughtfulness. “It’s a strange move for someone who’s only dealt in prostitution before, but if the rumors are true, it’s going to be a big speakeasy. She certainly has the resources.”

It was a wonder she had so much control just through prostitution. Well, then there’s murder, if you dared cross one of her Orchids. He’d seen a few cases of that.

Gar crossed his arms. “Why aren’t you going after the Liguori family?” It was almost certain they were running a few dozen speakeasies. “Or the McLaughlin Boys?”

“The Irish wouldn’t be running a speakeasy,” MatPat frowned, “and the Liguoris are too brutal for us to go after without enough proof.”

Gar narrowed his eyes. “Don’t underestimate Foxglove just because she’s a dame. She’s killed more people than you’ve put behind bars.”

“I doubt she's killed them all personally.” MatPat waved the comment off. “But I’m sure she's started a speakeasy.”

“What are your sources?”

MatPat hesitated, then sighed. His whole frame slumped. “I finally went through Jason's notebooks. He'd been collecting a bunch of information on Foxglove, and a lot of it pointed to her growing involvement in a speakeasy.”  

Gar unfolded his arms. Oh.

“I think…” MatPat trailed off for a moment. “I think he was investigating when he was killed. You know, trying to collect evidence. She found out. She found out and killed him.”

“... Do you have any proof of that?”

He shook his head. “The notes don't say anything about it, but it makes sense.”

Gar put his face in one hand and just looked at his partner before gesturing for MatPat to hand over the journal with this information. “I don't think notes are incriminating enough for that.”

MatPat looked Gar square in the eyes, passing it over. “I trust Jason.”

“Jason drank himself to death over the span of many months. He was pretty out of it by the end there.” Gar rubbed his face. “Can you trust him even through that?”

MatPat frowned. “You have a police friend, right?”

Gar nodded as he flipped through the journal. “Mr. Patrck.”

“Officer Static.” MatPat paused. “Would you still trust him if he worked for a mob?”

“No.” Jason’s handwriting was neat, making the journals easy to scan.

MatPat leaned forward again. “What if they were blackmailing him?”

Gar glanced up. “I'd feel bad for him, but I wouldn't trust him.”

MatPat stared at Gar for a minute. “You don't trust very many people, do you?”

Gar met his gaze calmly. “Sure I do. I'm just careful.”

“This might be why you're single.”

Gar shrugged.

“Regardless of how Jason passed, he died investigating Foxglove and speakeasies.” MatPat returned to the original topic, leaning back. “If we can get her pinched for it, her brothels will shut down too. Two birds with one stone. But, more importantly, she won’t be able to kill anyone else.”

“She protects a lot of women in those buildings.” Gar warned. “They won't be happy.”

“So we leave her brothels up. Just put her behind bars.” MatPat clasped his hands. “What do you say?”

“I think you're obsessed.” Gar sighed, deflating. “Can we take a break after this one, then?”

“Deal.”

Gar crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, examining MatPat for any indications of dishonesty. He found none.

“Fine.” He had the feeling he would regret agreeing to this. “After Kjellberg's poker tournament,” he added.

Then he paused, glancing down at the page of notes he’d stopped on: notes for an investigation that had happened after the molasses flood, paid for by one Rosanna Pansino. Gar shuddered briefly at the memories of that time and closed the journal. That was enough for one night.


	4. "Mistaken Mafia Mishap"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:
> 
> Caravan- Duke Ellington  
> Hoping a New Day - Thelonious Monk

**_Saturday, September 15 1923_ **

_On Wednesday night a local Italian-American (whose identity will remain anonymous as per request) was arrested on the suspicion of drug trafficking activities in connection with the Italian mafia. Surprisingly, when he was apprehended, he made no efforts to get away from the bulls._

_Just this morning he was tried in court, and to the shock of many he was found to be innocent of all charges. The information on the case was unclear, but according to the judge presiding over the trial, there was “insufficient evidence present to convict the defendant”. The defendant himself had nothing to say on the case, but reports claim he was nervous when questioned about his lack of resistance whilst being arrested._

_With the suspect’s clean testimony and the puzzling fact there was next to no evidence of any misdeeds conducted, the jury ruled the man was “simply on his way home that night after a long day at work”. Indeed, there appears to be nothing suspicious about the attire he wore on the night he was arrested. With that, the court concluded, “He’s just a lower-class Italian-American working hard to take care of his family, and has nothing to do with the Liguoris”._

_This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil._

_Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column!_

Ethan hailed down a cab about a block away from the speakeasy. Tyler, with a calm stare directed at the driver, slid into the passenger seat; Mark, Amy, and Ethan fit themselves into the back. They directed the driver to Felix’s address and were soon on their way to Beacon Hill in the Back Bay district.

Mark was glad they’d decided on a cab. It wouldn’t do to arrive at Kjellberg’s place all sweaty from a long walk—and it would have been a _very_ long walk.

The houses they passed on their way looked very bland, some crossing the verge into neglect. Over the growling engine they could hear raised voices calling to one another across the street, their accents—all similar to Jack’s—quite pronounced. It was clear they were on Irish turf.

The neighbourhood they drove through changed gradually.  The lawns were better kept, the hedges were trimmed, and the houses grew in size. Then the cab puttered to a halt, drawing up to the curb.  For a moment, Mark took in the scene.

There was no mistaking whose mansion this was. The landscape was beautiful in and of itself: freshly cut grass, neatly trimmed shrubs, and orderly flowerbeds made for quite a first impression. The house itself was just as impressive. Towering three stories in its brown brick glory, the white stone accents framed every window and door and were often embellished with delicate carvings. Even settled in the heart of Boston’s wealthiest neighborhood, its luxury and style put the other houses they had passed to shame.

They stepped out of the cab, smoothing down wrinkled clothing.

“This is it,” Tyler spoke up after paying the cabbie.

Mark came out of his trance. “This place practically screams ‘Felix’.”

“It’s- woah!” Ethan stared openly at the house. “It’s huge.”

“Stop gawking and get a move on.” Amy shook her head at the men.

Tyler, of course, said nothing; he hid a subtle eye-roll instead.

The crew came to the door and knocked firmly. It took a minute, then a man who was definitely not Felix opened the door. He was taller than Mark by a good few inches, had a full and well groomed beard, and was clearly well-built beneath his smart striped suit.

“I take it you’re here for Felix’s poker tournament too. Come in; I’ll show you to the room. There’s already some people here.”

“Oh,” Mark frowned slightly. “Are we late?”

“No, you’re on time. They came early. Seems like they're anxious to play some poker, but who wouldn’t be at a place like this.” The man smiled and reached out for a handshake. “I'm Morrison.”

Mark went ahead and shook his hand, near instantly regretting his decision. Morrison had a crushing grip, and it was clear to Mark the man was trying to prove something. Chances were, he was more than Felix's doorman. Likely a bodyguard of some kind.

Tyler could take him.

“Well, come in.” Morrison held the door open, moving aside so they could walk through.

Mark almost had his jaw fall completely off his face at the sight that greeted him. Lavish, opulent, and grand were weak words in the face of such luxury.

“They're all in here.” The front door closed softly and Morrison moved past them to lead the way. “Don't touch that, sap.”

Mark glanced behind him to see Tyler putting a hand on Ethan's shoulder and keeping him close, even as Ethan reached longingly for a curtain.

“It looks so soft,” the young man mumbled, “I wanna touch it.”

“I hope you two haven't bumped each other off in the two minutes it took me to answer the door.” Morrison said dryly as he stepped into a very blue room.

“Wouldn't dream of it.” Jack's cheerful voice was instantly recognizable.

“Of course not.” And there was PJ's voice. “We don't have any reason for that.” He chuckled softly as Mark walked into the room. “Even if we did, the detectives would have stopped us.”

“I was considering it.” Jack threw his arm over the back of his chair. “I wanted to see one of 'em sit on you.”

“You two seem to know each other well,” MatPat remarked, and Mark wasn’t sure if it was suspicion or simple curiosity he heard in the man’s words. Either way, the presence of the two detectives set him on edge. These were the men responsible for shutting down that speakeasy a couple days ago, and if Mark wasn’t careful tonight, they just may be responsible for the closure of his own establishment.

If it hadn't been for Amy's arm looped firmly through his, Mark likely would have turned and ran.

“Thank you for not humoring Jack, detectives.” Mark managed, hoping he didn't sound nearly as nervous as he felt. This was an incredibly bad idea.

Amy led him to a loveseat, and they settled into it as Mark did his best to ignore the two detectives. Sitting directly across from Amy and himself, MatPat was examining Mark with incredible intensity, while Gar absently ran his fingers over the material of the couch.

“It's so blue.” Ethan spoke up, mouth hanging open as he looked around the room. “Mark, can we paint me blue?”

Tyler shook his head, and Amy hid a smile.

“What, make you a small blue boy?” Mark placed a hand to his temple and closed his eyes. “No.”

“But Mark,” Ethan squeaked indignantly, “Look at it! It’s a beautiful colour, who wouldn’t want it all over their-”

“Ethan.” Tyler glared at the younger man, who fell silent from under Tyler’s heavy gaze. Slinking over to an empty chair, Ethan flopped into it, nearly pouting.

“Nice to see you again, Mark.” MatPat smiled faintly. “How's your brother doing?”

“He's fine.” Mark replied, sending another glance at Ethan to make sure he was staying put in the chair.

“Good to hear.” MatPat leaned back in his seat, even as Ethan started talking to Gar.

The sound of the front door closing and bickering voices slowly growing closer gave the group a pause. Mark looked up to see Felix’s door-man (or bodyguard, or whatever he was) enter the room, two tall young men following close behind.

“...And the third dog was acceptable, but when you asked the cabbie to pull over so you could step out and admire that particular miniature rosebush we stop by on our way to work _every day_ -” the young man halted, and looked up. He seemed startled by the number of faces looking back at him.

“Mr. Daniel Howell and Mr. Philip Lester, reporters for the Boston Herald,” Morrison introduced the two. “Mr. Kjellberg will be with you shortly.”

“Please, call us Dan and Phil.” The older of the two, Phil, said with a smile.

Dan looked at Phil, expression unreadable.

“What?” Phil asked.

“You didn't say there would be so many people.”

“You wouldn't have agreed to come if I had.” Phil shrugged, walking over to an available seat.

Dan leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and looking generally like he didn't want to talk to anyone. Even Ethan took a look at him and returned to his conversation with Gar.

A clattering of hard soles down a wooden staircase announced Felix’s presence moments before he swept into the room with his characteristic flourish.

“Well, well, well!” Holding his arms out wide, he directed a smile towards his guests. “Looks like nearly everyone’s here. How are all of you sorry saps? Ready for a friendly game of poker?”

“You wouldn’t be starting the game without us, now, would you?” A voice floated in from the front of the house, and Mark sighed. Right. He’d nearly forgotten Madame Foxglove and her lover would be joining them.

“He wouldn’t dare,” another voice stated, this one from within the room. Ethan visibly jumped, and a good number of the men looked over sharply.

A man stepped away from the wall. Dressed smartly in a well-cut dark suit, he exuded a certain mysterious bearing—certainly, the full-face mask helped. It was nothing like the elaborate, eerie masks one would find at a masquerade; rather, it was simple, white, and lacking in most features. Mark caught the gleam of sharp eyes studying each one of them in turn, before settling on Molly as she entered the room.

The mystery man stepped forward, navigating the furniture with a graceful ease. “Madame Foxglove, it is good to see you again.” Pausing, he adopted a slightly discomforted stance, then continued. “I hope you understand why I had to leave so quickly. It was a rather perilous situation, and I felt it best to remove myself.”

“They arrived safely.” Molly dipped her head. “They’ll contact you when they've settled.”

Wade cleared his throat. “So is everyone here, then?”

Mark looked to Felix, catching a flicker of unease just before the expression was wiped clean from his face.

“Yes, everyone’s here.” The familiar jaunty grin returned, and Felix backed up to the door. “Now come on, follow me, we can’t play in the solarium. It’s down to the game room we go.”

With Madame Foxglove on his arm, and Wade and the rest trailing behind, Felix led them through the house. After passing through a few rooms, each more lavishly decorated than the last, they descended a staircase into what must be the basement.

Mark couldn’t help but notice the whispers that passed between the two detectives as they trailed behind the rest of the group. The secretive conversation was hard to make out, though, with Ethan constantly going “ooh,” and “woah,” and “I wanna touch,” and “Tyler, let go of me.” He supposed it was a good thing. Mark didn’t really want to hear what the detectives were talking about, especially if the the topic was Molly. It was best to let some sleeping dogs lie.

Honestly, with the detectives’ reputations, Mark was surprised Molly had come at all. Sure, she was known as Madame Foxglove, head of a very powerful portion of the underground to all but a few, but still. She was a known criminal, and they were known detectives. Clean ones.

“Here we are.” Felix’s smile somehow widened further, and with a grand gesture he opened a set of double doors. The room was large, though small in comparison to the others they had just passed through. The pale walls, a floor tiled in dark red, and varnished wooden accents gave it a comfortable ambiance. A large, heavy table dominated the room, circled by a number of cushioned chairs. Some hanging lights lit the area in a purposefully dim manner.

And there on the sidelines sat a delicate, dark-haired woman, petting a tan pug with an eyepatch bandage. A second pug, this one black, wandered over to Jack. Marzia looked up and smiled as Molly and Amy moved to sit next to her.

“I’m glad you ladies came. I wouldn’t want to watch the game alone.”

Molly laughed, making herself comfortable. “It’ll be a pleasure to watch the men fumble around.”

“Hey.” Wade frowned at her. “I know how to play.”

Molly smirked at him. “Try not to lose too much money, alright?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Wade still looked offended, though he was fighting to hide a smile.

“You didn’t dream of burning supper last night, and you did that anyway.” Molly rolled her eyes.

Wade gave an offended sniff, turning his back on her. Molly laughed.

“This will be an interesting game.” Gar murmured softly.


	5. Bringing in the Money

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It get updated with every chapter we post.
> 
> Today's tunes:
> 
> Equinox- John Coltrane  
> Mount Harisa- Duke Ellington
> 
> For Dan and Phil's notes, Dan writes in no caps and no punctuation, whereas Phil writes with caps and punctuation (mostly). It doesn't always read form line to line, be conscious of some jumping around.

_possible article topics and notes_ __ _saturday 15_ ~~_14_~~ _september_

_irish mob (That’s awfully dark, Dan) these are dark days phil       Dan, you wrote the wrong date_

_Dogs_ _See, Dan, we can agree on some things!_

_i could deal with that  
_

_how madame foxglove treats her orchids (We could ask her if we ever meet her) im not sure that would be an unbiased source philly (Stop calling me that) alright philly_

_(Hey, we met her. Should we ask?)_

_The amazing cultures coming into Boston through immigration  ...i dont think people will agree with you there  Sure they will, have you seen the food?  food doesnt make up for murder  People need to get their priorities straight.  ...phil..._

_best restaurants in south boston  Do we get to visit them all and sample them to decide this?  better is that we can make the herald pay for it_

_Growing a Pretty Garden_ _So?_ _Dan! That’s horrible!_

_it is almost fall_ _so everything will be dying in winter_ _life is death_

_the inside of an orchid house_ _Dan, work won’t pay you to visit a brothel_

_i want to know anyway_

“Well,” Felix waved vaguely at the table, “Everyone take a seat.”

Jack glanced over to Morrison. He was standing next to the door, arms crossed over his large chest. “Will your big six be joining us?”

Felix smirked at his bodyguard. “Who, Ken? No. He knows better than to play with me.”

There was a brief moment of hesitation as everyone decided just who they’d be sitting next to. The two detectives sat immediately, and soon after Wade chose a spot on the other end of the table. Jack, smirking at everyone’s reluctance to sit next to either detective, dragged a chair back and slouched next to Gar. Dan and Phil sat next to Wade. Soon enough, the rest of the spots filled in and the first round began.

The cards were dealt quickly, and it was instantly obvious that Dan and Phil had terrible poker faces. No one had long to dwell on that particular observation, though, because then they were in the thick of the round.

“Raise, 75.” Wade grinned cheekily.

“Oh, dear. Not already.” Even with the distance between them, Molly’s groan could be heard.

Ethan made a face. “Call.”

Tyler didn’t so much as hesitate. “Call.” He didn’t blink; it hardly looked like he was even breathing.

MatPat and Gar, who had ended up on a team just to make the game possible, looked at each other for a long moment before MatPat nodded. Gar sighed. “Call.”

“Fold.” Jack put his hands in his lap.

“Already? Are you scared, Jackaboy?” Felix laughed.

Jack leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “No. Sensible. Unlike a certain bearded man.” He glanced down the table at Wade.

Wade ignored him, instead studiously studying the grain of the table.

Mark debated for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll call.”

“Call.” PJ spoke after a fraction of a second.

“I’m raising,” Felix grinned. “One hundred.”

Cry chuckled softly. “Alright. Call.”

“We’re raising it to 125.” Phil declared.

“Phil, no.” Dan gave his teammate a look of disbelief. “We talked about this.”

Cards were turned over, revealing a jack (at which Wade cracked a joke about there already being a Jack at the table; nobody was impressed), a four, and a ten.

“One hundred.” Wade grinned.

“Wade.” Molly’s frown might as well be audible.

He threw a grin over his shoulder at her.

“Call.” Ethan looked unsure of himself. Was this to be his plan for the entire game, to match whatever Wade put on the table? Was he just copying what everyone else was doing to make it seem like he knew how to play? On that note, did he know how to play? Had he even looked at his cards?

Tyler didn’t say anything. He just shoved the appropriate number of chips into the center of the table.

The detectives looked at each other again, then shrugged. “Call,” MatPat said.

“I think they’re better than we are,” Gar muttered softly as he rubbed the back of his neck ruefully.

Mark held back a laugh. He was doing okay so far. “Call.”

PJ shook his head. “I’m folding.” His cards hit the table with a soft slap.

“Who knew an Italian would follow in the footsteps of the Irish?” Felix laughed, not noticing as PJ stiffened at the comment. “I’m calling.”

Cry sighed. “Fold.” He leaned back in his seat and stared at Tyler, who looked right back with just as steady of a gaze. Perhaps the two of them were going to have a staring contest.

“Raise it to 150,” Phil blurted.

Dan groaned and shoved his face in his hands. “Phil, why.”

A total of $1550 was in the pot now, and a 9 was turned over. Those who had tapped out settled back, ready to watch the show.

“One twenty-five.” Wade couldn’t help but shake his head.

“Finally, something vaguely sensible,” Molly said.

“If you wanted to play, you could have said something.”

“You’re bad enough for the both of us,” she shot back.

“Call.” Ethan shoved a hand through his hair.

“Call.” Tyler stared back at Cry, unblinking, even as he moved his chips.

“You’ve got a great poker face.” Ethan noted offhandedly.

Mark snorted. “That’s because he has the mantra of, ‘ _I’m Tyler—and I don’t have emotions’._ ”

Tyler didn’t even look at him.

“Call.” MatPat said.

Mark took a deep breath. “Fold.” Best to cut his losses while he still could.

“Call.” Felix leaned back casually, grinning at everyone—excluding Tyler and Cry, who hadn’t broken gaze. He frowned at them instead. “Is there an entire soul between the two of you? Are you trying to fuse it?”

Neither responded.

“We-” Dan slapped his hand over Phil’s mouth, cutting off whatever Phil was about to say.

“Call.” Dan whispered, actually sounding pained.

A king was turned over.

“I’m going all in.” Wade grinned madly.

“Wade, no. That’s not a good idea.” Molly spoke up from the couches along the wall. There were quiet chuckles from the two other women.

“Wade yes.” His grin grew bigger.

Ethan shook his head. “Nope. Nope. Nope. Folding. I’m folding.”

Tyler, finally breaking eye contact with Cry, grimaced. “Fold.” It was a good thing, too; honestly it had been getting to a point where everyone was starting to feel uncomfortable—even Felix.

Gar was already shaking his head as everyone looked to the detectives. “Fold.”

Felix laughed, almost gleefully. “Alright. I’ll go all in.”

“Phil, no.” Dan gave Phil a desperate, pleading look. “Don’t do it.”

“All in!” Phil exclaimed with a brilliant grin. Dan groaned and put his head on the table: an audible thump.

“We’ll do fine.” Phil patted Dan on the back.

Felix won the $4225 pot.

“And you wonder why he’s rich.” Amy snickered as she leaned over to Marzia and Molly.

“Well,” Molly sighed,“I certainly know why I’m not.”

Wade leaned back and looked over at her. “It was exciting, though, right?” Molly merely gave him a deadpan stare.

“We’ll still be fine.” Phil was assuring Dan, even as the younger man continued to bury his face in his hands, to the amusement of everyone else.

“Completely out on the first round.” Dan mumbled through his fingers. “I can’t believe it.”

“We’re not the only ones.”

“Following in Wade’s footsteps isn’t always the smartest thing to do.” Molly said dryly, somehow able to overhear the young men.

“Dear, I’m offended. Don’t you love me?” Wade grinned at her.

“I’ve never loved you for your brains.” Molly smirked. Wade pouted, and everyone laughed.

The second round of cards was dealt and, once again, Wade was the first to go—after receiving a small sum of money from Molly. Phil managed to talk Felix into giving them some so they could keep playing.

“Fifty.” Wade muttered, and Molly smiled.

“Oh, I can do that.” Ethan grinned. “Call.”

“Raise, 75.” Tyler’s expression had returned to stone.

“Call.” MatPat said simply, even as Gar leaned back in his chair. It seemed the two had no need to discuss their strategy.

“Call.” Jack said casually. Then he leaned forward. “So, detectives, how’s the whole ‘closing up juice joints’ business? I saw an article about your latest takedown.”

Dan and Phil preened.

“Call.” Mark stared down at his cards, trying to be inconspicuous even as he waited eagerly for a response.

“It’s quite the challenge, putting everything together.” MatPat finally said. “Gathering information is the hardest part.”

“Call.” PJ nodded genially at the detectives. “I’m sure. How do you do it, then? All that gumshoeing?"

“Practice. Lots of practice.” Gar replied, looking a little wary about this line of questioning.

“Raise it to 100.” Felix smirked, seemingly unaware of the mounting tension.

“Call.” Cry barely let Felix finish speaking before he spoke. He was all too aware of what was happening, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Fold.” Dan shook his head.

“But, Dan, why?” Phil looked at Dan, brow creasing with no small measure of dejection. He’d wanted to continue.

“You know why.”

Cards were turned over -- a jack, an ace, and an eight.

“Seventy-five.” Wade sounded sure of himself.

“Keep being reasonable.” Molly muttered, only audible to the two other women. “Please, for the sake of my wallet.”

“Call.” Ethan’s eyes were bright as he shifted in his seat. “I’m doing okay, I think.”

“Call.” Tyler looked dead straight at Ethan. “You sure?”

Ethan swallowed. “Not anymore, I’m not.” He shrank back into his chair.

“Call,” Gar spoke this time. MatPat paused and just looked at the people around the table for a long moment.

“Call.” Jack shook his head. “You know, Felix, you could have gotten us something to drink. I thought you were a better host.”

“And how!” Felix grinned. “I’ll see what I can get after this round."

“None for me.” Mark shook his head. “Call.”

“Call.” PJ looked at MatPat, then smiled softly. “You seem nervous suddenly. Everything alright?”

“Terrific,” MatPat assured them, his voice betraying him with a wobble.

“Raise it to 100.” Felix casually leaned back in his chair.

“Call.” Cry sounded amused, gaining a sharp look from Felix.

At this point the pot was $1775: not an amount to scoff at. The fourth card was turned to reveal a second jack.

“Seventy-five, again.” Wade smiled faintly, and returned to the conversation. “Is it hard to find enough evidence to pinch people?”

MatPat’s eyes narrowed for a moment as he looked at Wade, and then his gaze slid over to where Molly was laughing at something Amy had said. “It can be.”

One of Wade’s eyebrows twitched. Perhaps it was a facial tic—perhaps not.

“Fold.” Ethan looked at Tyler, his gaze accusatory. “It’s your fault, you know. I wasn’t going to fold. Just watch, I probably have perfectly fine cards, and you’ll be left holding the bag.”

“Good,” Tyler met Ethan’s gaze unwaveringly. Then, “I call.”

Gar leaned over to MatPat and muttered something that sounded a bit like a particularly nasty curse.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” Jack raised his eyebrows, barely hiding a wide smile. “What was that?”

“Uh, fold. He said fold.” MatPat hastily replied, glaring at Gar.

“Call.” Jack nodded. “Any new leads? Or are you taking it slow for now?” Cry stilled in his seat.

“Call.” Mark kept his voice quiet and his face neutral. He wanted to hear what the detectives had to say.

It was PJ’s turn. “Fold.”

“It’s hard to know right now.” Gar said simply. “We did just finish up our last case, as you know. Which reminds me, we still have some paperwork to do. And there’s the matter of confidentiality, as well as all that legal stuff. We can’t just talk about these things.”

“You know what, let’s raise it to a thousand.” Felix’s grin didn’t quite hide the discomfort in his eyes.

Cry shook his head; a barely discernible movement, unless you were looking closely. “Fold.”

Over three grand in the pot now. Wade looked at it, then glanced over his shoulder at Molly. She narrowed her eyes at him; a clear warning. Then the fifth card was turned, revealing a queen.

“I’m going all in!” Wade proclaimed, shoving his chips into the center.

“Wade.” Molly’s voice held nothing but disappointment.

Tyler crossed his arms, and the shadow of a frown appeared. “Fold.”

“You know what, I’ll bite.” Jack stood up, slowly sliding all of his chips into the center of the table. He met Wade’s eyes with his own gaze, and for once the Irishman was entirely calm. “All in.”

A murmur ran around the table. No one had seen that coming.

“Fold.” Mark shook his head. He didn’t have good enough cards to involve himself in this nonsense.

Felix sighed, giving up on his bluff. “Fold.”

Jack grinned, showing his hand. “Royal flush. Take that, you sorry saps. I win.”

Wade wasn’t the only man who cursed under his breath as Jack took the entire $4150 pot.

“That’s it.” Molly cut her conversation with Amy and Marzia short. “Get out of the chair.”

“Oh. Okay.” Wade had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “Why?”

“If I’m going to lose all my scratch, I want to be the one losing it.” She towered behind the chair Wade was sitting in. “Now fade.”

Wade stood obediently, held the chair for her (ever the gentleman), then made his retreat to the seating nearby where both Marzia and Amy watched with a great deal of amusement.

Jack sat up, a wide grin breaking across his face as Ken appeared, carrying a platter of drinks. He accepted his glass with a nod, immediately taking a sip and a pleased hum escaping him.

Mark turned to the man, about to refuse his drink when Felix spoke up.

“He brought water for you, Mark. Don’t worry, I won’t be poisoning anyone in my own house. I’m not that kind of host.”

MatPat’s eyes widened as Felix glanced, for the slimmest of moments, to Madame Foxglove.

Ken distributed the rest of the drinks across the table. At first Gar and MatPat tried to decline, but when Felix suggested they accept the drinks—a slight chill in his voice as he reminded them they weren’t on the job—the detectives each lifted a glass off the tray and pointedly took a sip.

The hum of casual conversation rose up as Felix moved to the side, discussing something with Ken. It seemed there was going to be a break before the next round. Dan was lecturing Phil on when to go all in (basically never, according to him), and PJ was striking up a conversation with Mark about a new tune that he had recently heard somewhere. Both Cry and Jack were reclined in their chairs, savouring their drinks and observing the people around them. Molly was talking with Tyler and Ethan, coaxing a smile out of the former and leaving the latter, for once, effectively speechless.

MatPat leaned on his armrest, inclining his head towards Gar.

“What do you think of them so far?” MatPat murmured softly. “Madame Foxglove and Wade.”

“It’s strange that he doesn't have an alias too,” Gar replied under his breath. “Or maybe we just haven’t connected one to him yet.”

“Did you see how Kjellberg glanced at her when he mentioned poison?”

“Really, who didn’t? It wasn’t obvious, but anyone with half a brain couldn’t have missed it.” He paused. “She's known for poisons, so maybe it wasn’t anything. Maybe it was just… a harmless acknowledgement, or something.” Gar sighed, reaching for his drink and taking another sip.

“You don't actually have to finish that, you know.”

“I do if we're having this conversation right now. Besides, don’t want to high-hat our gracious host.” Gar met MatPat's eyes. “What's rattling around in that head of yours?”

“We have the chance to observe her right now, where we can be sure she won't try to kill us. We might learn a lot of things.

Gar muttered something mostly inaudible and took a big swallow of his drink. “I've seen her in action before.”

MatPat raised his eyebrows.

“I know what you’re thinking, but no. It wasn’t murder. Nothing like that. My sister had to get out of town fast, but she… she couldn’t. Madame Foxglove snuck her out. If she hadn't, I might not have a sister any more.” He finished his drink. “A lot of people would be missing their sisters and mothers and daughters if it wasn’t for her.”

“Do you… should you be on this case?”

“No, I'll be okay. I just... I'm not sure putting her behind bars would actually be good for the women of Boston. For all of Boston. She saves more lives than she takes, you know.”

“She’s still a criminal, Gar. No one’s above the law.”

Gar studied his partner, something unreadable in his eyes. “I used to think that, too.” He swallowed, then turned back to the table. Ken deftly refilled his empty glass, earning a quick thanks.

Jack caught Gar's eye and sat up.

“Couldn’t help but overhear a few things.” His voice was gentle, friendly—too friendly. It put Gar on edge. “And I have to say, I didn’t expect you, of all people, to have such a complicated opinion on her.”

Gar’s lips tightened. “My opinion on anyone in this room is none of your business.”

“What,” Jack cocked his head, smiling into his drink. “Even on me?”

A flicker of confusion crossed Gar’s face. “What opinion would I have on you?”  He paused. It had just occurred to him he wasn’t quite sure who this Irish fellow was. A friend of Felix’s, he assumed, as was nearly everyone else here. Jack’s rougher attitude wasn’t too out of place.

“You must not have heard him on the drums yet, then,” PJ said over Mark, leaning back so he could grin at the detective. “Everyone has an opinion on him after they’ve heard him play.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like a real line coming from you, PJ.”

“Does it?” The Italian-American chuckled, then turned and joined in on the banter between Dan and Phil.

Gar almost asked Jack where he played, and if he could stop by sometime, but Felix chose that moment to return to the table.

“Jack’s going to deal this time,” he announced, slapping the deck down in front of the Irishman. Then Felix bent over and hissed in his ear, “If I catch you counting the cards again, you’d better believe I’ll get Ken to throw you out on the street without a single penny that you’ve won.” Jack glanced at Ken. The man smirked and cracked his knuckles, adding to his already intimidating appearance.

As everyone settled into their seats, it could be said that the Irishman’s grin was just a little forced.


	6. Ready for Another Round?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:
> 
> So What~ Miles Davis  
> Agra~ Duke Ellington

_I really like the flavor of this drink.        What do you mean, “Here we go”? Nothing has happened._

_here we go_

_everyone is scared of her Who, Dan? madame foxglove Well, she’s murdered people in the past. That’s a good reason to be scared of her. maybe i can hire her Why do you want to do that? :D_

_THERE ARE TWO DOGS IN THIS ROOM! see this is what i meant by here we go youve had two drinks phil You’ve had three and you stopped using punctuation. i never started phil_

_We should go on dates. With women. i dont think wed do very well at socializing like that Sure we will. We just need practice. youre not practicing with me Why not? im busy Doing what? drinking_

_[something completely unintelligible] uh phil i think youve had enough I’ve had thix drinks. That’s all. i dont even know how many that is but im going to need that number just to survive going home with you Dan! Don’t end up snoring on the table. It’s bad for you. ...im going to do it_

Jack stood, deftly shuffling the deck as he grinned at the table.

“Well now, darbs, dames and dicks,” he tipped an imaginary cap to the two detectives, “Let’s begin this third round.” With clear, practiced ease Jack dealt out the cards and returned to his seat.

Cry picked up his cards and studied them, just as he’d done at the beginning of the previous two rounds. Not a horrible hand. Not good, but not horrible. He could work with it.

The air was thick with the heavy smell of alcohol. It was a wonder everyone wasn’t drunk from simply breathing.

PJ started the round this time. ”Let’s begin with a modest bet of 25, yeah?”

“Alright. Raise it to seventy-five, then,” Felix slid his chips forward with a sly smile. Everyone matched the seventy-five until it reached Jack. He folded.

Mark, with a sour look, followed suit.

Cry’s lips twitched under his mask. He was interested by the Irishman and how he played; he knew what he was doing. Mark, on the other hand? At least he had learned caution by this third round.

Jack dealt the three flop cards: an eight, a seven, and an ace.

Good. This was working in his favour, so far. Combined with his two and seven he already had a pair, and the two other flop cards had yet to be revealed. A flush was becoming a promising possibility, too. He just had to figure out who had the hands that could beat him.

Jack collected the chips.

“That’s five fifty for the pot,” he announced, sinking back into his chair and nursing his drink, a small smile on his face.

“I’ll put some more in there. Raise, one hundred,” said Felix with a very smug look before taking a swig of his drink. Cry could tell he was trying his best to scare the others off, and by Ethan’s frown and Tyler’s tight jaw he knew who was going to fold this time over.

He was right. Everyone else called. Now he knew who to watch out for.

It was the reporters, of all people. The two young men who clearly didn’t know who half of the people sitting at this table were; far too innocent to be meddling in this world. They had also been drinking rather heavily ever since Ken brought out the alcohol. He’d have a talk with Felix about them later.

“Ten fifty for the pot.” Cry could tell Jack was content to just leave the rest of the round to play out as he settled into the role of the dealer. Honestly, he had to admire Jack’s level of skill with the game; not only must he have picked it up from somewhere, he had to have practiced. Cry now wished Felix had told him sooner just who he’d be inviting to poker. He was only able to discover Jack was connected to the Irish mob in some way—and that PJ had relations in the Italian mafia. He made a mental note to follow those leads. It was, after all, his business to know these things.

Jack moved suddenly, snapping Cry out of his thoughts. The Irishman was only dealing the fourth flop card, though. A three was revealed.

PJ placed his bet of twenty five, then everyone turned their attention to Felix. With a flash of a smile: “Raise, three hundred!” he boisterously called out, the alcohol raising his voice. Cry swept his gaze across the table and, as expected, those still in the game tensed up at Felix’s scare tactic. Cry, however, was not fooled.

He could tell Felix knew everyone only had about three hundred or so worth of chips left, whereas he had enough to do what he pleased. The value of his cards? If anybody else were to guess, it seemed he knew what he was doing; it appeared he had the cards to fight for. To Cry, Felix’s smile was too wide, his face too flushed to be just from the drinks. He kept tapping his left foot; a nervous habit he’d yet to break.

Still, with only a little more than three hundred left, Cry doubted anyone would take the risk. Mark stopped glancing at the detectives (really, the man was being far too obvious; he might as well tell the detectives outright he was the owner of a very successful speakeasy) to watch Felix with an eyebrow raised. Jack, Cry noted with slight concern, continued to take small sips from his drink, his amused eyes clearly seeing through Felix’s bluff.

Cry turned his mask directly towards Felix. “Call.”

Felix’s guise of confidence faltered ever so slightly—but it was subtle, and he recovered quickly enough that not many people picked it up. The game continued.

“Ca-”

“Fold!” Dan hastily silenced Phil from speaking out, resulting in soft laughter from Phil. Cry, on the other hand, breathed an internal sigh of relief. Unless if he was mistaken, they could’ve won with their hand. It was a good thing Dan erred on the side of caution. That left…

“Fold.” Wade’s slurred complaint of, “Oh come on, Molly! You gotta go big with these kinds of games,” could be heard from where he sat with Amy and Marzia, but Molly chose to ignore him. At least she knew when it was time to back down, and luckily for her, the alcohol hadn’t settled in just yet to erase those inhibitions.

MatPat turned to his partner, but Gar was already shaking his head and whispering some words that were unintelligible from where Cry sat. MatPat sighed and turned back to everyone. “Fold.”

“Sixteen seventy-five in the pot,” Jack called out ceremoniously as he gathered the chips into the center. He then revealed the last card, and Cry grinned under his mask.

Glancing over to PJ, Cry saw resignation written all over his features. “Fold.”

With PJ gone, everyone looked at Cry and Felix. The latter contemplated his cards for several moments, uncertainty and regret apparent on his flushed face. Felix gave a weak grin when he finally looked up.

“Check.”

Cry stood up. “All in.” He slid all of his chips into the center and when he was done, Felix had abandoned his bravado.

“Fold.”

“Felix, baby,” Cry let his smile bleed into his voice. “You’re the darb. I win with a flush.”

Across the table, MatPat was busy analyzing the people around him, taking no mind of his partner’s fidgeting, or who’d won the game. He was judging his chances for survival. There was an exit just to the left of his seat, so if he and Gar needed to make a break for it they had that option. Although he had left his gun at the station (he was off-duty, and it was never a good idea to bring a firearm to a poker game like this) there were enough things lying around to use as a makeshift weapon—if worst came to worst.

He was sitting with a mob boss, so sue him for being cautious.

Jack collected the cards. “So, anybody want to go another round?”

“Wait. How about another break?” Mark interjected from his seat next to Jack. “It seems like the alcohol is starting to get to some of us.”

“What? No wayyy, you’re all lightweights!” Felix said loudly, his words garbled. “We’ve yet to begin!”

MatPat glanced around, and Mark was right. Phil had dissolved into giggles and smiles, and Dan was looking incredibly amused at his partner’s antics, laughing himself at a few of the things Phil was saying. Wade was waving his hands everywhere while babbling something MatPat could not make out to Amy and Marzia. Molly was giving Wade some very amused glances that he took no mind of anymore.

Felix was clearly the worst of the lot at this point. His whole face was flushed a vibrant rose, and he wore a permanent grin. His voice boomed and slurred so much it might as well have been a portamento of incoherence.

“Anyone else wanted a break?” Jack looked around, his tone indicating that he was fine with either option.

MatPat had come to the conclusion the Irishman was the hardest to read (besides, of course, Felix’s man wearing the mask). The entire time, he never seemed worried he was sitting in the basement of one of Boston’s richest men, playing poker with Madame Foxglove herself. He’d also been playing the game with confidence, with no thought of taking money from these high-ups. Either no one was home or he had more brass than a bull to do such a thing.

Tyler, the looming silhouette on MatPat’s right, posed a challenge as well. He hid any expressions behind a solid front of professional disinterest; MatPat would go so far as to say he had a perfect poker face. With his demeanor and his build, there was no way he was just a “friend” of Mark’s. Maybe a bodyguard, then; like Ken was to Felix.

“Yeah, a break sounds like the berries.” Madame Foxglove’s voice was light and airy; gentle. MatPat still had to keep himself from flinching at the sound. Even though there wasn’t anything special about what she said, he couldn’t help but be wary of her.

“Alright, break time it is, then!” The cheery Irishman grinned, earning himself a series of scrambled insults from the drunk Swede, half of which were likely in his native tongue.

MatPat watched as Jack shuffled the cards for the next round, his movements fluid and practiced. Just before he placed down the deck, Jack glanced back at the detectives and—did he _smirk_? Then the moment was gone and the Irishman looked away.

On the far side of the room, Wade said... something that was pretty much incoherent. He’d clearly had more than enough to drink. Next to MatPat, Gar was laughing at something Ethan was doing. He’d also had enough to drink.

“I’m surrounded by a bunch o’ wet saps.” Mark leaned back in his chair, observing the general attitude of the room.

“Aren’t you used to it by now?” PJ asked, laughing softly. MatPat frowned. Was that supposed to mean something?

Cry chuckled, even as Ken brought out another round of drinks.

“Da-an! You swiped my drink!” Phil protested, clearly audible even across the table.

“It’s mine now.” Dan laughed, holding the drink out of Phil’s reach. He wobbled, just for a moment, almost falling out of his chair.

Phil made a pouting face, putting his hands in his lap. “I’d steal your drink, but it wouldn’t taste good.”

Dan’s laugh was borderline maniacal.

More laughter came from Amy and Marzia as Wade continued talking, and one of the pugs began barking, as if insulted by something the mobster had said.

Why had Felix invited two known mobsters to this poker game? MatPat absently took a sip from his drink. It didn’t seem very logical, but at least Gar and himself might be able to learn a few things as everyone gradually lost their inhibitions.

Assuming they didn’t let things slip, themselves. Gar wasn’t saying much and he had a good grasp on secrets, so MatPat wasn’t terribly worried about that. But if he was entirely honest with himself, he had probably also had a bit too much to drink.

That could prove to be a problem.

“That’s going to be the last round of drinks.” Ken crossed his arms, looking around the group. “I don’t want to have to carry anyone out of here.”

Something almost completely unintelligible came from Wade at that, sounding like a protest.

“And I really don’t want to have to carry _you_ out. You’re taller than I am.” Ken shook his head.

“We can handle more!” Felix practically shouted, laughing.

“No.” Ken shook his head again. “Best get the game back on, before anyone falls asleep in their drinks.”

“Tell that to the one half of the Bumblers drowning in giggle water over there,” Jack said, jerking his thumb at the pair of reporters. “He must have a death wish.” MatPat turned his head towards Dan and Phil, missing the tiny frown Mark sent in Jack’s direction.

“Dan!” Phil squeaked self-consciously at the onslaught of attention from everyone. He was in the midst of trying to get Dan to move from hugging the table. It didn’t look very comfortable.

“Let me hug it, Phil.” Dan mumbled. “I need a good friend.”

Phil pulled a face, clearly embarrassed, and continued poking Dan in the shoulder.

“No.”

“Dan, please.”

Dan hugged the table tighter.

Phil made a sad face, then poked Dan in the neck.

Dan shrieked, jerking backwards and knocking his chair over in the process. Now on the floor, he gave Phil the single most betrayed look MatPat had ever seen. “How could you _do that?”_ Dan cried. “I thought you were my friend.”

“You said the table was your friend.” Phil crossed his arms. “You tried to replace me.”

“Says you! I can have more than one friend!”

“No, you can’t.” Phil shook his head.

“Case and point.” Ken’s arms didn’t move from his solid chest, and he sent a glance over to Felix. “We need to wrap up tonight. I’m sure we all have businesses to attend to in the morning, and a hangover will be the last thing we all need.”

“Exactly.” Tyler gave Ethan a pointed look, who mumbled in embarrassment.

  
“I only wanted a little taste of the juice…”

“No.”

Mark ran a hand over his hair and sighed. “At least my restaurant will have a waiter tomorrow.” He flashed Tyler a small smile. “I’m not sure which direction my business would’ve taken if not for Mr. Killed-His-Emotions over here balancing his two day jobs.”

“Probably would’ve gone to hell.” Tyler’s tone was deadpan, but there was an illusion of a smirk on his face and maybe, just maybe, his eyes had softened a bit. But then MatPat blinked, and it was gone.

He shook his head, and addressed Mark directly. “So, Mark. Still dry?”

It took several moments for MatPat to realize the room had grown suspiciously quieter, and several people were giving him and Mark strange looks.

Amusement danced in Jack’s blue eyes. PJ and Tyler both had an unreadable expression. MatPat couldn’t see Cry’s face, but it seemed he had suddenly become very interested in what was going on. Molly wore a smile, but there was something else in her eyes; Ethan had an awkward look to him. Wade was still laughing about something, but Amy shushed him while she herself wore an expression that was more than worry. Gar had stopped talking at this point, and his gaze darted from person to person. Surprisingly, Felix, too, had grown quiet, and glanced between him and Mark.

Mark himself swallowed before replying, “Of course. Can’t touch the stuff.”

MatPat narrowed his eyes. “Did I say something wrong?”

Everyone’s behavior was very suspicious, and he had a gut feeling it was more than just the man’s inability to drink booze that had everyone so interested in their conversation.

However, it was true; Mark’s personal condition prevented him from having any kind of alcohol. He didn’t seem disgruntled at all that he was kept dry. Maybe MatPat was just thinking too much. Maybe he’d had too much to drink.

Then there was the matter of who his brother was, and what he did. If there was anything he learned from listening to Tom talk endlessly about his younger brother...

MatPat’s scrambled thoughts were interrupted when a certain Irishman spoke up.

“So! Ready for round four, anyone?” Somehow, the tense mood was dispersed by his loud, accented voice. MatPat glanced around, and everyone had more or less snapped out of it in order to turn their attention to the dealer.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s wrap up the night,” Mark said a bit too loudly. MatPat stared at Mark. He seemed very eager to end what had barely been a conversation, and he was looking at everyone else but him.

The air was heavier now, but it was no longer the thick scent of alcohol that pressed against the skin. He’d trod on dangerous territory, and he wasn’t sure if he’d made it out unscathed.

Everyone studied their hand, reluctant to speak. Then Jack’s voice cut through the overbearing atmosphere.

“He’s going to fall out of his chair again like that.” Jack aimed a pointed look at Dan, who had set up his chair and gotten back in it, only to start dozing.

“I can play for both of us.” Phil gave an uncertain smile. “We are a team, after all.”

Jack shrugged. “Alright.” He gestured to PJ, as if inviting him to make the first bet.

There was a moment of hesitation. “Twenty-five.” PJ said.

Felix said something, shoving the chips for $100 into the middle of the table. Apparently he’d raised the bet.

Cry shook his head, already folding.

“Call.” Phil smiled, looking up from arranging his and Dan’s chips into a complicated flower pattern.

“Call.” Molly looked at the flower Phil was making, as if she was trying to identify what it was. “You’re being very symmetrical.”

Phil grinned at her. “Thank you.”

“Call.” Ethan leaned over the table to look at the flower. “Oh, that is nice.”

Phil’s grin grew wider.

“Fold.” Tyler glanced at the poker chip flower, and that was it.

MatPat tipped his head at Gar, who grinned encouragingly at him.

“Fine. Call.” Was this a good idea? There was no way to tell just yet, but they could manage to lose a hundred.

Jack laughed. “I’ll fold.” He looked at the detectives. “You two have been drinking a lot for guys who just shut down a speakeasy.”

Gar gave a bit of a chuckle. “Yup.”

MatPat, on the other hand, gave pause at that. “Err…” Everyone stared at MatPat for a few moments while he tried think of an answer.

That is until Mark, who had been silently contemplating his options, sighed and pushed his chips away. “Call.”

“Six twenty-five for the pot!” Jack called out in a thick Irish accent, his words slightly slurred. He then gathered the chips neatly into a pile in the center (thus destroying Phil’s floral pattern, much to his distress). While turning the first three cards over, he shot MatPat a loopy smile. “Well? Aren’t you supposed to keep dry? Y’know, good example and all that.”

There was a two, a three, and a Jack.

While PJ silently slid forward another twenty five chips, MatPat fidgeted with the cards he was holding, unsure of how to reply to the Irishman. Clearly, Jack was waiting not only for an answer, but for… proof, perhaps? Proof even good detectives were just as tempted by the drink as the rest of them.

Before he could answer, however, Felix stood, waving his glass and shouting, “Raise!”

And no sooner after Felix proclaimed his bet did Phil follow suit with just as much energy. “Call!”

Molly chuckled, amused by the turn of events unfolding before her. “Call.”

Ethan, too, was chuckling, though if it was due to MatPat’s discomfort or the antics of the drunk people around the table, he couldn’t say. Ethan stifled the giggle when Tyler sent a glare his way, but he couldn’t help but smirk.

It was MatPat’s turn to bet, and he was quite literally sweating. He realized Jack still expected an answer, but at the same time, he was debating whether or not to continue in the game. He was so close to a straight, but if one of the last flop cards wasn’t a six then he might as well have nothing.

He turned to Gar, hoping for advice, but his partner only nodded vigorously for him to match the bet. He sighed. It was down to the luck of the draw.

“Call.”

Even now Jack had yet to look away, and MatPat was certain some of the others were just as interested in his answer. He had to give them one, then. Any more waiting and he risked looking suspicious, rather than just plastered.

“It’s not illegal to drink booze, now is it?” Inwardly, he swore at himself. It sounded so defensive, so weak. He’d be lucky if he wasn’t torn to bits by the time this last round ended.

Jack’s smile widened, as if that was the answer he was expecting. “Sure isn’t. But what with how dead serious you two are about running down every speakeasy there is in Boston, anyone would’ve thought that maybe… maybe you have a personal grudge with bars, and speakeasies, or the wet stuff in general.”

MatPat had to think for a moment. He supposed he had the papers to thank for that particular opinion. In fact, it had originated from Dan and Phil, hadn’t it? The Boston Bumblers, with their daily Nifty News column. Who knew he’d ever have something to thank them for.

Should he could continue with the charade? Could he, in his muddled state? MatPat blinked the cards back into focus. He needed to lay low about his real motive; it wouldn’t do to let Madame Foxglove know he had her marked as a suspect.

“Well, clearly I’m not against the booze,” he said, and sure enough his voice was a bit too loud, a little too slurred. ;He left it at that. The implication would be clear, if anyone bothered to listen.

Mark gave MatPat a strange look. This time, it wasn't bordering on fear.

Mark knew the real reason why MatPat was so intent on shutting down speakeasies, and it wasn't because he hated alcohol. It was about Jason. It was always about him. MatPat’s previous partner—admittedly, a known boozehound—had nearly drank himself to death in Mark’s own joint. In fact, he had died not even an hour later, barely staggering home.

Still, MatPat played the part of the hypocritical gumshoe well, and Mark was certain that the one still-alert reporter was soaking up every bit of it.

It was then when Mark realized everyone was looking at him. He cleared his throat. “Uh, call.”

Jack swept everything together. “Twelve fifty for the pot!” He then flashed MatPat a smile. “Well, alright then.” He swept his gaze across the table while he flipped over an eight. “I guess we all should enjoy the booze tonight.”

PJ slid his usual twenty-five poker chips across the table while smirking. “Yeah, I think I’m used to what Felix gets his mitts on nowadays.”

MatPat blinked. Something was being implied there, something that nearly made it into his alcohol-fuzzed mind.

The Swede laughed raucously. “Ha! I provide only the real McCoy for my guests.” His eyes held wild mischief as he carelessly threw his chips into the center.

Phil scribbled down every word in the conversation, only pausing to match the egg’s bet. He took no notice of the fact he was down to only twenty-five dollars-worth of chips.

“Fold,” Molly announced with conviction, cueing a protest from Wade. This time, Molly shot back over her shoulder at him, “The juice was the bee’s knees, but if that means cutting my purse constantly because of your impotence, then there’s no reason to come at all. Besides,” Madame Foxglove had a sly smile when she turned around again. “There’s no need for me to come here to tip a few.”

MatPat’s eyes widened at the unspoken implications. His muddled brain was racing, trying to keep up with everything. Could that mean-

“I doubt there’s any other place where Felix’s brews would taste just as good.” Ethan cheerfully slid the needed chips into the center before shooting a wink at Mark. This prompted Mark to roll his eyes while Tyler simply shook his head.

Cry could tell MatPat was only somewhat following what everyone was saying, and he was having trouble connecting the dots, so Cry decided to join in on the banter. Raising his glass he said, “Madame Foxglove won’t find a brew with better quality anywhere.”

MatPat was finding it difficult to comprehend conversation; he must have had too much to drink, after all. He could only hope he’d be able to remember what was being said, be able to remember the hidden implications and subtle expressions. He doubted Gar, in his live wire state of drunkenness, would be able to remember a single thing the next morning.

Instead, MatPat did his best to focus on the cards. That, at least, he could manage. Numbers and suits were simple, especially when all he needed to get a swell hand was a six. But there still wasn’t a six on the table, was there?. Even if the last flop card happened to be what he needed, there was a chance his competition have better hands than him. Was he really going to risk it all in this last round?

One look at his partner, who was permanently grinning and bright-eyed, told him what he needed to know. “Call.”

Mark shook his head. These people were walking a narrow line. If not for the drunken stupor everyone was in right now, most would’ve folded by now. He glanced at his cards. He only had one pair, unless if he was lucky enough to have a match to the last flop card. That meant what he had now wasn't enough to beat the stronger hands around the table.

Nonetheless, there was a daring voice in his head that urged him to take the leap of faith. In all honestly, Mark was a risk-taker. He did own a very illegal—and very popular—speakeasy, if that was enough indication.

So he kept his next sigh to himself, and called.

“Seventeen seventy-five in the pot!” Jack’s voice had grown louder and his accent more pronounced throughout the game and the drinking; the change was increasingly apparent every time he called out the pot.

Not looking at anyone in particular, Jack said, “Shame a nice place for a good drink just ain’t a thing anymore.” He casted a sideways glance at Mark next to him. “At least, that we know of.” He then finally went and revealed the final flop card.

It was a six.

PJ glanced back and forth between the cards he was currently holding and the ones on the table, his expression unreadable. He then snorted before placing his cards face-down. “Oh, what the hell. Twenty-five, as always.”

Felix slammed his glass down on the table, shouting, “I’m going all in!” as he shoved his collection of poker chips to the center. His eyes were bright, and didn’t seem to be focusing on any one thing.

Predictably, Phil also stood up and declared, “I’m going all in, too!” It would’ve been more impressive, however, if Phil had more than twenty-five chips at that point.

At Phil’s cry Dan startled awake and toppled to the floor. He was completely bewildered for a moment, struggling onto his feet and looking at the table. Then he noticed their lack of poker chips, and the panic set in. “Phil, no! You didn’t!”

“I did too, Dan!” Phil shot back. “That’s what you get for stealing my drink!”

Ethan looked away from the reporters and shrugged, shoving everything to the middle. “Might as well.”

Gar was already shoving all of the chips he and MatPat shared into the middle. “This will be fun,” he beamed, eagerly shifting in his chair. MatPat could only hope that Gar’s excitement about their hand would be mistaken as his usual drunk self.

Mark sighed. He wasn’t one to back away from a challenge like this, especially since everyone previous had gone all in. He nodded. “Wouldn’t be the first time I put all my chips on the table.” As an afterthought, he added softly, “Losing money’s always been the least of my concerns.”

MatPat’s smile flickered as he overheard that last sentence.

Molly leaned back in her seat, propping her chin on her elbow lightly as she watched. She didn’t seem concerned at all about what was going on. Of course, she’d already folded, so it made sense: it was all entertainment for her.

Jack gestured over the pile of chips. “For drama’s sake,” he paused dramatically—which gave Ken enough time to mutter something along the lines of, “we’ve got enough damn drama for an opera house,”—”Everyone show their hands at the same time.”

Without waiting for anyone else, Felix slammed his cards down with a drunken grin splitting his face. He was acting as though he had already won the game, even though he only had a pair of twos. Phil just as eagerly put down his hand: a pair of Jacks, just like Ethan’s from across the table.

PJ glanced around, noticing both Mark and himself had the same hand: a double pair of sixes and threes. “Huh. So, I guess it’s a tie, then-”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Gar stood up, giggling, as he pointed out his and MatPat’s shared cards, “Guess who just got a straight!”

Mark groaned, but neither Felix nor Phil seemed to notice, even as Dan did his best to tell them. Four thousand, six hundred and twenty-nine dollars in the pot, and the detectives were the ones to walk away with the final prize of the evening.

MatPat only hoped they would be allowed to walk away.

“It’s just swell,” Ken cut across the noise. “But you should all get going home before you end up on the ground.” He glanced at Dan. “Again, for some of you.”

Dan nodded, standing a little unsteadily. The others followed suit, with varying degrees of confidence.

Cry looked at Ken, and then at their partially conscious employer. Ken moved forwards and pulled Felix’s arm over his shoulders.

“I don’ need help.” Felix slurred loudly. “I can climb stairs.” He stood, only to suddenly sit back down. Cry shook his head, moving to pull out Felix’s chair so Ken could help him up.

Ken shifted his grip. “Next step is carrying you entirely.”

“I-I can do it.” Felix insisted before taking a step and wobbling into Ken.

“Why did you put so many stairs in your mansion if you can’t even walk up them when you’re like this?”

“They’re fancy,” Felix protested. Ken grumbled something less than complimentary as he dragged Felix out of the room, leading the guests up the stairs.

They all stopped at the foyer, having gathered their overcoats and other belonging on the way. Felix had propped himself against the doorframe, attempting to look like the good host and holding the door open, saying his farewells. The two reporters left first, arms looped around each other as they stumbled down the short flight of steps.

“Come on, Phil. Let’s go pet our neighbours’ dogs.”

Phil looked over. “Are you going to steal one again?”

Dan rubbed the back of his neck. “No, no, I never- I never stole their dog.” He laughed self-consciously. “Oh dear.” The rest of the group still standing inside could hear the two mumble their way down the cobbled footpath.

“Hmph. If I didn’t have such a good read on those boys, I’d say that was a euphemism for something,” Molly murmured from the doorway, watching them stumble away.

Jack stepped out next and gave a little bow. “Thanks for having me as the dealer.” He grinned. “And thanks for the dough.” With that, he turned neatly on his heel and walked out.

“Shouldn’t he take a cab home? Or at least walk with someone; it’s growing dark,” Gar muttered to MatPat, who shrugged.

“Let him get mugged. Let him lose all his earnings. Next time he’ll know better.”

Ethan said under his breath, “No one would dare.” He didn’t think anyone heard his comment.

PJ shook his head, turning up the collar of his coat against the evening chill as he stepped out. “Take care, Felix.” He turned to the ladies, touched a finger to the brim of his hat, and gave Marzia a smile.

“Take care, Marzia.” And then he clattered down the few stairs, walked the length of the footpath, and disappeared around the corner.

Molly, with Wade practically draped over her, laughed as the two of them staggered down the steps. “Alright, let’s get you home. I’m driving.” Then she looked over her shoulder, a remarkably open smile gracing her face, and bid those remaining a good night.

“You know,” Ethan said as he gathered his things and readied to leave, eyes on those departing as they weaved from one side of the footpath to the other, “I’m really glad I’m not spifflicated.”

“You’re welcome.” Tyler replied.

Mark turned to Amy and offered her his arm, which she took, and with a little wave over his shoulders to the remaining party and a cheery good-bye, he led Tyler and Ethan out to the street to hail a cab.

MatPat turned to Gar, who was buttoning up his coat. “You ready yet?” He moved from one foot to the next, his pockets full of the night’s winnings.

Gar grinned. “You know, I should introduce you to Dante one of these days.”

MatPat nodded impatiently. “That would be nice.”

Ken had dragged Felix back inside, assuring him that he’d succeeded as a host. Cry watched the detectives leave, then turned to Marzia, studying her.

“You’re worried about something,” he stated simply.

“Do you think they knew?”

Cry knew exactly who she was talking about, and he shook his head. “The detectives wouldn’t have been so calm if they did.” He locked the door and offered her an arm. “Let’s go take care of Felix.”


	7. "Messy Molasses Mayhem"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We update it with every new chapter!
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> Here's today's tunes: 
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> Time~ Hans Zimmer  
> Forgotten Moments- Vincent Diamante  
> Flamenco Sketches- Miles Davis

**_Thursday, January 16 1919_ **

_Typically, when one thinks of molasses, they think of slow, sweet joy. This was not the case when a 50’ high by 90’ wide tank exploded yesterday, releasing over two million gallons of molasses into the streets of Boston._

_Many buildings have been damaged and some structures were completely destroyed. Nearly 30 people are dead, almost 150 have been wounded, and many horses were caught in the flood._

_The rescue teams are still searching for survivors. Clean-up of the immediate area has begun; it has been estimated that it will take weeks._

_Witness testimonies have marked this event as one of the worst disasters this side of Boston has seen. Screams and agonized cries filled the air as those in the surrounding area came to help; many found bodies of friends, family, or neighbours._

_We send our condolences to the many families affected by this tragedy._

_This has been news from Dan Howell and Phil Lester._

Felix sighed with contentment as he stretched out on a lounger in his backyard, sipping at his private brewery’s latest batch. It was an excellent yield; smooth, crisp, and sweet—almost to the point of being sticky on his teeth.

Too sticky.

Felix coughed a bit as his next sip sat too heavily on his tongue, as it threatened to stopper up his throat. He shot up in his seat, gasping and spluttering, as a liquid far more viscous than beer dribbled, slow as molasses, from his lips.

It _was_ molasses. Felix stared down at the growing splatters of brown in his lap with growing horror. The cup he held was full of the stuff, and when he touched fingers to his chin they nearly became glued there. The molasses was warm- no, it was _hot._ Almost hot enough to burn and Felix sputtered again, tossing the cup away and launching to his feet. The glass shattered against his patio but he ignored it, even as the puddle it formed grew. He wiped at his face and clothes, trying to remove the substance. His stomach turned. He felt akin to a murderer, dripping with fresh blood.

That’s when the screams began. Distant cries and wails rising up, coupled with a deep rumble and the sound of rushing water and crumbling foundations. No. No, too slow and thick to be water. God, if only it was just water. Felix knew what he’d find when he turned towards the sounds of desperate whinnies and anguished pleas.

His mansion had disappeared. In its place sat a desolation no horror novel or grim fairytale could ever have predicted. A river of brown: glimmering in the sunlight and spotted with the trophies of its mindless destruction. Bodies by the dozens, choking and gasping, writhing and pulling against their newfound tombs as they tried to breathe. A futile task. Horses were stuck in the mire up to their haunches, on their sides; hooves kicking feebly as the molasses snuffed out their screams and lives. Buildings lay in ruins, with more dead buried in the rubble. Stands were destroyed, carriages overturned, and the cause of it all just simmering in place with nowhere to go.

Another scream, much louder and distinctly feminine, pulled Felix from his horrified scrutiny of the disaster. A woman, spotted from head to toe with the thick substance and long, brown hair matted beyond recognition, stood before him wailing over two still figures. She was up to her waist in the muck but was too distraught to care. Her tears slipped slow and thick down her face; trails of amber on her skin. More molasses. It was _everywhere._ There was no escaping it; no escaping _her_ as she pointed a brown oozing finger right at him.

_“You did this! You were the cause! This is all your doing—yours! Their deaths are on your hands, and no matter what the law says,_ god will know ** _._** _I will know._ You _will always know what you’ve done, and I hope you suffer for it, Kjellberg! Suffer like my parents!!”_

“N-no, no,  I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-”

A different sort of wail arose, wrenching at his soul simply because Felix recognized the voice. It tugged his gaze away from the furious woman’s accusations, the sight of her, the sight of her parents on the ground. The scene shifted, and Cry kneeled before him, sticky fingerprints on his mask. His sleeves were soaked up to the elbows with molasses as he cradled a small, limp body in his arms. The masked man’s sobs were choked and stifled but still present, still welling up to the surface. Tears might have been slipping from his chin, dripping on the brown-smeared face, but they looked like molasses. More and more molasses, it was _everywhere,_ it would not go away.

“C.. Cry…” Felix reached out to the man, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to help. Cry didn’t seem to notice his presence, merely tucking the little body closer to his chest and pressing his masked face against the matted hair.

_"I'm sorry! God, fuck, I'm so sorry, no. No no no, not you, you were never supposed to be a part of this—god I'm sorry, I didn't know... I didn't know! It was just supposed to be a little explosion- not this, never this, never you, god forgive me I'm so... no... please, god, no...."_

“Cry… Cry…!” Felix renewed his efforts to reach for the man, but he found his feet were stuck firmly in place. Looking down, he was horrified to discover the molasses he’d carelessly tossed away earlier had grown to completely engulf his feet, trapping him. No matter how he struggled or pulled, he couldn’t move from his spot, and now Cry was looking towards him with that unknown expression. He’d ceased his cries, though he still held the body in his arms.

_“Your fault… this is all your fault, Felix. If I’d just done my job, if I’d just killed- if I hadn’t listened to you…. He’d be alive… they’d all be alive… it’s your fault….”_

Cry’s words were quiet, calmer than the woman’s. But they were powerful. They echoed and reverberated in Felix’s mind to the point of pain. He pressed sticky hands to his head as he stared down his friend with teary blue eyes.

“No, no, Cry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…! I didn’t know!” Yet the man continued to mutter his accusations, toneless and blind to the sudden wave of yet more molasses rising up behind him, rolling closer, threatening to swallow up all of Boston itself.

Felix could only scream.

“Cry! Cry, look out, behind you- run Cry, run!”

But the wave crashed over them, slamming into Felix and pulling at his body. It settled nearly to his chest, ceaselessly tugging at him as his feet kept him grounded. He swiped his hands and arms through the muck and mire, looking around frantically, praying for some sign of Cry.

“Cry? Cry! Ken?! Marzia! Please, anybody, help! Help me! Mother, help me, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

His cries fell on deaf ears. Deaf, because everyone was dead: consumed alive by the sweetest of death sentences, and Felix could feel it coming for him next. It dripped down into his hair, it slipped between his suit and his skin, it blinded his eyes, and it crept down his throat. He choked, flailing through the endless syrup, unable to breathe. His lungs were filling with magma, burning him up from the inside.

The molasses covered up his body; it covered the streets and it covered the whole of the city. It had no mercy or empathy—how could it?

Boston in ruins; a good buzz taken too far.

And it was all his fault.

  
  


Felix snapped awake with a gasp, finding himself tangled up in his bedsheets. He flailed and writhed, attempting to untangle himself, but the binds only grew tighter. With blue eyes wide and body drenched in sweat, it was several minutes before Felix forced himself to cease. To relax. To stop struggling. He could still feel his heart trying to escape his breast via his throat. A heart attack wouldn’t do him any good right now.

Swallowing against a dry throat, Felix drew in measured breaths. There he lay, on his bed, legs and torso still trapped in his sheets, waiting until he could no longer hear his racing heartbeat thrumming in his ears. The perspiration on his body had chilled, leaving him shivering as he carefully twisted out of the material. He’d need a bath for certain.

The curtains of the tall window beside the bed were still drawn shut, but as Felix sat up he could see a sliver of light spilling across the cherry oak flooring, evading the heavy drapes. Birdsong and the familiar sound of puttering automobile engines drifted through the walls, finally acknowledged by his renewed clarity. Just another morning in Beacon Hill, the jewel of Boston. And…

“Just another nightmare.”

Felix puffed out an exhausted breath, combing fingers through his matted hair and cursing softly in Swedish. He’d never been more grateful of Marzia being an early riser: she hadn’t been in the bed to witness his panicked thrashing. That was always the worst part of the aftermath.

He rubbed at his face. It felt sticky; Felix supposed he’d probably been crying at some point as well. Fantastic. It had been weeks since his dreams plagued him so terribly.

“I need a drink.”

Getting up from the bed, Felix indulged himself in a full-body stretch before he strode eagerly to the small bar tucked away in the corner of the bedroom. As much of a fan as he was for his family’s own brew, Felix wouldn’t deny he had a taste for the stronger stuff. He needed it, right then.

Yet as he cracked open a half-empty bottle of top shelf rum (he’d gotten it as a gift from a trading partner in the Caribbean), he paused. The intoxicatingly sweet aroma hit his nose, and, for a brief second, his nightmare flashed through his mind’s eye—thick molasses, everywhere! It filled all the nooks and crannies of North End, while screams of the deceased echoed in Felix’s ears.

His stomach clenched. He closed the bottle.

“Maybe… just some water, this morning,” he mumbled to himself. If Felix tucked the bottle deep behind all the rest in his liquor cabinet, it was just coincidence.

He slid a heavy glass towards him and picked up the silver pitcher of water. The water wasn’t cool any more, but he drank it nonetheless, hoping to do away with the dryness.

He coughed before staring at the empty glass in his hands. Shaking his head, he remembered that he still had work to do for the day. These scarring dreams weren’t unfamiliar, but they drained him and made the day more difficult than it should be. Thank god he didn’t suffer from hangovers. The morning could’ve been worse.

Felix moved to the bathroom to freshen up for the day. He should not look like a _complete_ mess to the public. However, the instant the water came flowing from the faucet, a flash of an image from last night’s phantasma came back in a rush. He could feel the heavy mass of molasses crash down on him; hear the constant cries of innocent bystanders.

Glancing up at the mirror, the face of the young lady who had lost her parents stared back at him, their eyes sharing the same haunted look. He tensed and he blinked; then it was only his disheveled face looking back at him.

“Damn it, get it together Felix. What’s important is living in the present, and trying to not lose your mind in the process,” he told himself in Swedish.

He glanced at the mirror again. God, he really did look like a complete mess, but it couldn’t have been much worse than last night. He’d been pretty smoked, and he could only hope he hadn’t let anything slip.

His stomach growled, demanding food. He had to eat something to start off the day, but he did not have the energy to make anything—nor was he sure he could stomach any food, regardless of his hunger. Nonetheless, a delicious smell wafting in from the kitchen made his mouth water.

Hesitantly, perhaps drawn by the prospect of food, or simply by the idea of company, he wandered through his mansion until he reached the kitchen. Marzia was there, at the stove, cooking.

“Oh! You’re up early today. I knew you would have a bit of a rough night, so I made you breakfast. Your favorite.” Marzia gave Felix a broad smile.

“Yeah, it was a pretty rough night. Guess that’s what happens when I drink too much, the imagination gets all balled up.” Felix feigned a smile but it felt so uneasy. “Speaking of, how out of it was I? I don’t remember much of the poker game after the second round.”

Ken came down to the kitchen, yawning and stretching. “I had to carry you up the stairs, you couldn’t even stand on your own. You really need to stop drinking like that.”

Felix paused. “Ah.” He looked around, as if searching for something. “I assume they all got home safely?”

“They all left in one piece,” Ken shrugged. “I was a bit preoccupied with you, though, so that’s all I know.” He leaned against the wall. “You could ask Cry, if he’s awake. I don’t think he even got in from lurking around town until just before dawn.”

Felix frowned. “That long? Was he following some kind of lead?”

Ken shook his head. “How am I supposed to know? He answers to you, not to me.”

Felix just looked at Ken, who chuckled slightly. “Really. I have no idea. He seemed pretty concerned about it, though; whatever it was, so he’ll probably be talking to you later today.”

Felix sighed, thinking of the day ahead of him. No big meetings, as it was Sunday, but he was expected to check in on the distillery and make sure nothing had gone wrong overnight. He was lucky he’d managed to make the switch to medicinal alcohol production when prohibition had gone into effect, but whiskey was different enough from beer to warrant his watchful eye.

Felix glanced at the clock in the kitchen: ten in the morning. He had time, then. He could wait for Cry to get up and report on whatever he’d learned in the night, but, after the dream he’d had, he wasn’t sure he could face the masked man.

“Let’s check up on the factory after breakfast.” Felix looked over at Ken.

Ken dipped his head. “Sure thing.”

As Felix and Ken were about to walk out the door, Cry came down the stairs. Unbidden, the image of Cry sobbing in the molasses reared its awful head, and Felix turned and walked out the door. He couldn’t face him. He just couldn’t.

Ken refused to let Felix drive, insisting he was too distracted, leaving Felix to watch the streets pass by as they drove to the factory. The air seemed sweet today, sickly sweet with the faint undertone of death. Everything was clean (at least as clean as Boston normally was), but Felix could have sworn he caught glimpses of sticky brown molasses.

The factory was quiet, as was typical for a Sunday, allowing Felix to think in silence as he walked around and made sure everything was as it should be. It seemed both emptier and smaller than it had when he was a child; when his father had been alive and running the company. Before prohibition had started. Before everything had gone wrong.

Right before he walked out the door to return to the car, Ken clapped a hand on his shoulder. Felix halted, and looked at him.

“You’ve been pretty down.” Ken crossed his arms. “What’s eating you?”

Felix shook his head. “It seems I’m stuck in the past today.” He glanced around the factory once more, the faint smell of alcohol hanging in the air. “It all used to be so different.”

“You managed to keep the company going.” Ken said reassuringly. “Times change. It’s okay.”

“Perhaps.” Felix continued on his previous path, making sure to lock the door to the factory behind him. Sure, he’d kept everything going, even when competitors had been ruined, but at what cost?

Too high of a cost. That was for sure.

It took Felix a few minutes to notice that Ken wasn’t taking them back to the mansion. He looked over at his bodyguard and friend and gave him a quizzical look.

“There’s more bothering you.” Ken didn’t even glance over, keeping his focus on driving. “I figure you need someone to talk to who won’t make you feel like you’re being judged every time you see them.”

Felix looked around them again, just then realizing where they were headed. “You’re taking me to The Tiny Box?”

Ken grinned. “Yes, I am.”

“But it’s not open today.”

“Mark will still be there.” Ken gave Felix a reassuring glance.

“But… Today’s the one day he can rest. He wears himself down- I don’t want to...” Felix frowned. “And what if he’s not there?”

“Then I’ll take you to his place.”

The two sat in silence for a few more minutes. Felix kept his gaze out of the window as the streets became more familiar. Eventually, Felix could make out the restaurant.

Perhaps it was just the way the building looked, or perhaps it was the knowledge of the kind of people who ran the restaurant, but either way, in broad daylight, Felix felt a sense of reassurance at the sight.

Standing outside the building was none other than Mark himself. Felix was too far away to make out exactly what he was doing, but from the looks of it, he simply seemed to be studying the building. As they pulled over, Mark turned around and blinked.

“Felix?”

“Do you have time to talk?” Ken asked as he slid out of the car.

Mark nodded, pulling out a set of keys. “Let’s go inside.”

Mark opened the Tiny Box, allowing Felix and Ken inside, before turning and locking the doors behind them. “Now, I don’t know what conversation we’re having, but let’s keep it down. I don’t want to have Kathryn chastising us for being too loud if she and Amy are trying to do things upstairs.”

Felix nodded, and Mark gestured for him to take a seat as he pulled out a chair himself. Felix settled into a chair of his own, and Mark sat in his backwards, arms resting on the back.

“What’s on your mind?” Mark asked.

Felix studied the man in front of him. He looked weary, but not in quite the same way as Felix felt. No, Felix was worn down on the inside. Worn to the bone.

Was he really about to confess his involvement in one of the biggest disasters in Boston’s recent history? He looked at his hands, some part of him wondering if he could make a run for it without Ken stopping him.

Probably not.

“I’ll keep your secret,” Mark added. “I’ve kept everyone else’s.”

Felix sighed and looked up, Mark’s serious eyes meeting his own. Then he nodded.

Felix took an audible swallow and began to talk sheepishly. “Haha, well… the thing is, I’ve been having a lot of trouble with something that just keeps coming back-”

“Beating around the bush won’t do you any good at all. Just tell me what’s eating you.”

Felix looked surprised at Mark’s interruption. In the year he had known Mark, he had thought Mark would be the last person in Boston to take an issue this seriously; much less one he had no part in. He, like their many associates in illegal businesses, had his own problems to worry about. It seemed he had underestimated Mark’s compassion.

“Fine.” Felix swallowed. “You know about that huge molasses incident that happened a few years ago?”

“Oh yeah, I remember that. It was real bad. Took months to clean up and a lot of people died. I donated to some of the families who needed help. Heard it was some kind of malfunction. Why?” Mark asked Felix with a confused look.

Felix’s hands were in his lap and they were shaking. “It wasn’t an accident.” He dropped his gaze, scared of what he’d see in Mark’s face.

“Oh.” A pause. “What happened?”

Felix looked up slowly, finding only concern in Mark’s face. There was no anger; no misgivings at what Felix had said.

“Oh, where to begin.” Felix sighed. He closed his eyes for a minute, thinking. “Right after… not too long after my parents’ funeral, I… .” So many things had happened.

“I made a decision to take out competition, before they took me out,” He blurted. Mark’s eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing, so Felix continued with a shaky voice. “I- I ordered Cry to weaken one of the tanks the molasses was stored in. It was supposed to burst that night, when nobody was out on the streets, but-” Felix buried his face in his hands, “I didn’t know it wasn’t built to standards.” He blinked furiously to keep the tears from falling. “So many people died, Mark,” his voice cracked. “So many people were hurt. People who didn’t do anything to deserve… to deserve any of it. And it’s all my fault.”

There was a long moment of silence before Mark sighed. “Felix. Oh, Felix.”

  
Felix lowered his hands to see Mark looking at him with an unreadable expression—not a bad one, just unreadable.

“You didn’t plan for things to go as horribly wrong as they did.” Mark shifted position, clearly thinking. “That’s a big weight to have been carrying for as long as you have.” Mark met Felix’s blue eyes. There were no traces of judgment in his warm brown ones. ”And to be hiding it all behind a smile probably made it more awful to bare.”

Felix was crying, choking on sobs as he tried to continue speaking. “It was the worst. It’s my fault so many people… that so many lives were… It’s just getting harder to live with.” He couldn’t stop the tears anymore. The wails of the people in every one of his past dreams kept echoing through his mind. He tore his gaze away from Mark, pressing a hand over his mouth to keep in the sobs.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, Felix.” Ken stepped forward.. “It’s ok, no one’s upset with you, you’re among friends here. Mark’s not upset, nor will I ever be. Heck, I became your bodyguard after that whole mess, remember?”

Mark stood up from his chair and knelt next to Felix.

“Felix. Felix, please, look at me.” His voice was low and soft. It was comforting enough to draw Felix out of the tight shape he’d curled into; comforting enough to look at Mark again.

Mark grabbed Felix by the shoulders, preventing him from turning away. Ken tensed at the contact, but otherwise did not make a move to stop him.

“Listen, we all make mistakes as human beings. We do things on the spot without regard for the consequences, because there’s always some irrationality in our thoughts.”

Mark paused for a moment, a thought seemingly passing through his mind. “I have a feeling you’re not telling me the whole story, but what you did could’ve happened to any one of us if we had the power. There’s a reason why I never judge anyone. We’re all human beings; we’re all subject to make mistakes of any caliber.”

His eyes softened. “You may not agree with me, but I still believe in the good that’s in you. We’re all capable of doing as much right as wrong. I know it’s hard to let go of this, but if you continue to live in the past, how will you move on to the future?”   

Felix’s eyes never left Mark’s; he was hanging on to every word. Mark was awfully wise and insightful for his age. Perhaps the only horrible thing to have occurred in Mark’s life was the death of his father (cancer had taken him) and yet, he gave such sound advice with so much confidence, it was as though he knew it would succeed. It was as if Mark had faced his own demons before, and now Mark was advising him from experience.

Felix couldn’t believe in himself like Mark did. He tried his best every day, but he’d never labelled himself as a good man, especially after the molasses flood. He had royally screwed up, and he would never forget it.

He thought he was going to tear up again when Mark asked him another question.

“Will you accept your mistake, and try to move on from it?”

Felix contemplated Mark’s words. Honestly, he could never forgive himself for the disaster, and it was pretty tempting to wallow in the pain of the past. However, he also knew it would be pretty selfish of him to hide; to do nothing more than grieve.

He had a business to run, and as much as he hated the power he had, there were goals he wanted to see carried out in this world. In a way, he had many opportunities to redeem himself. Mark was right. The disaster was a thing of the past, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t change a thing. It was time to move on.

Finally, Felix nodded, but he was not at all prepared when Mark suddenly threw his arms around him in an embrace. He gave a start, then relaxed into the hug. He could hear Ken clear his throat in the background, but the two of them ignored the other man.

“Why are you so smart about all this?” Felix finally asked, pulling away.

“I’m not.” Mark blinked. “I’m surprised you’ve actually listened to a word I said.”

Felix just looked at him. “You made a lot of sense, you know. Had a lot of good points.”

“I just listened, really.” Mark shrugged. “It’s amazing, a lot of people think it’s more than that, but that’s really all there is to it.” Mark clapped Felix on the shoulder. “Come on, I know just what you need: some good, old fashioned home cooking.”

And with that, Mark led Felix and Ken into the kitchen.


	8. "Halloween Homicide Horror"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We update it with every new chapter!
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> Ad Lib on Nippon- Duke Ellington

**_W_ _ednesday,_ _November 1, 1922_ **

_Three bodies were found floating in the Charles River in the early hours of the morning. All three bore wounds that suggested they’d been beaten to death, or at least to unconsciousness, before being dumped in the river._

_It is unclear if these murders were a result of an argument, or unfriendly possession from last night, or if it was an act by one of the mobs. Investigation is continuing, but conclusive results are unlikely._

_Police recommend extra caution at night, especially with the growing crime rate. Be safe, folks._

_This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil._

Wade stirred, a throbbing migraine weighing his head down as though an anvil was balanced atop his skull. The world felt like a thrill ride to him, and he contemplated not getting out of bed at all. Groaning, he pulled the covers over his head and decided it would be nice to go back to sleep. At least nothing would hurt, then.

“If you’re going to stay in bed like a dewdropper, Keeters is going to climb in with you,” Molly said calmly. “He was trying to cuddle you earlier, but you kept knocking him off the bed.”

Wade pulled down the covers just enough to see her standing in the doorway, sipping something he probably didn't want to drink.

“Molly.” Wade groaned.

Molly raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Why are you talking.”

“It's almost noon; time to get up.” Molly took another sip, not looking away from Wade.

Wade half grumbled, half groaned, and slowly rolled over before thudding onto the floor.

Molly laughed softly. “There's food in the kitchen, just heat it up over the stove-top. I'll be at my desk if there's an emergency.”

“Right. Emergency,” Wade mumbled into the floor.

“There’s also some tea that will help with your hangover. JP’s coming with you today,” Molly added as she left.

“What? Why? Does he have to?” Wade whined in a tone that was a combination of exhaustion and irritation.

Molly had already left from Wade’s room, so that was an automatic “yes” without question. Grumbling a few profanities under his breath—quietly, so quietly, because everything was still too loud—Wade levered himself up off the floor and staggered out to the landing.

It took him a bit too long to heat up his food but he eventually was at the table, managing to stomach the light meal and barely keeping down the bitter tea. Molly usually sweetened her concoctions with honey, but if last night had gone even half as badly as the fragments he remembered, perhaps he deserved this tiny punishment.

Fortunately for him, he didn’t have any construction work to do today. He still had the Orchids’ business to handle, though. Molly hadn’t mentioned anything specifically, which meant it was just the usual routine.

The faster he got it done, the faster he could get back to bed.

With that thought in mind, he staggered back to the room and pulled on clean clothes, feeling a touch more prepared for the day.

Wade waited for the young man to join him. Was Molly trying to get JP to come with Wade on his Sunday runs? Not that he had a problem taking the kid, he just wished it could’ve started another day when he hadn’t drunk so much the night before. This should be quick; there wasn’t much to do on Sundays.

“Morning, Wade,” JP called out as he clattered down the stairs. “You look exhausted today. The giggle juice from last night catching up to you?”

Wade shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Being hungover is not the best condition to be on for these runs. I’m getting too old for this.”

“Yeah, 27 is definitely too old. Do you need me to get your cane too?” JP said, smirking. Wade ignored him. He definitely was not in the mood for this.

Hypothetically, he could have driven to the warehouse, but he had no way of ensuring Molly wouldn’t need the automobile while he was gone. While it was a bit of a walk, he would have time to get everything done. Besides, it wasn’t too cold yet. Maybe the fresh air would help to clear his head.

Wade left a scrawled note for Molly on the kitchen table (assuming Keeters didn’t try to eat the thing), letting her know he was walking with JP, and started towards Summer Street.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept his face hidden with the brim of his hat as he walked; having a beard was already going to attract attention. Avoiding suspicion would be a lot easier if he wasn’t such a tall guy, accompanied by a tall youth.

Besides, keeping his hands in his pockets meant he had easier access to his fold-up knife.

A few people edged away from them as they walked past, probably trying to avoid him. That was fair. If Wade had seen someone who looked like him walking down the street back before he’d gotten involved with the Orchids, he would have walked the other way too.

Other people voiced soft murmurs of pity when they saw his beard, likely drawing the clear conclusion as to why he wore it. He didn’t let himself get down over other people’s reactions to him, though. It was a lovely afternoon. He had a steady day job (at least until it got too cold to build things). He had good friends in Jack and Mark. JP was learning the trade well. He was able to clear the streets of some of the nasty men in Boston.

Life was good.

As Wade approached the warehouse, his smile faded a little. Knowing what had happened to bring him here was not the most comfortable of topics.

With that, he unlocked the door and walked in, JP closing it behind them.

“Took you long enough,” a familiar voice said bluntly.

Wade leaned behind one of the crates and picked up a metal baseball bat before walking towards the voice. “I walked. It’s the bee’s knees outside.”

Minx laughed softly. “It is, isn’t it?” She turned to look at the figure tied to a chair, silent in the middle of the open space before them.

“Only one today.”

Wade frowned, resting the bat on his shoulder. “One too many.”

“And how!” Minx grinned at him. “I’ve got to blouse, but I want to hear about it later.”

“Was that an invitation to supper?” Wade raised his eyebrows at Minx, a hopeful look on his face.

Minx laughed. “No. I don’t ever want to be seen with a mustard plaster like you in public.” She paused, then laughed again. “You can come, though.” She smiled at JP as the teen drifted into the area.

Wade frowned at her, though he wasn’t upset at her words.

“Oh. Uh.” JP shook his head. “I’ll pass.”

“Alright. Have fu-un!” Minx half-sang the words as she walked off.

Wade smiled as he returned to the man in the chair. He wouldn’t necessarily have _fun_ , per say, but he certainly would enjoy it.

His footsteps were quiet as he walked up to the man, but judging by the way his head jerked upwards, revealing a gagged mouth and wide eyes, he could still hear Wade.

He casually swung the baseball bat off his shoulder and tested the balance. He knew how it felt, it was one of his favorites, but it always helped instill a healthy sense of fear into whoever was watching.

He crouched in front of the man, pulling his knife out of his pocket and flipping the blade open before holding it to the man’s throat.

The man’s eyes widened, and he tried to pull away, only to slam into the back of the chair.

Wade shook his head, pressing the knife gently against the man’s throat with a sigh before leaning the bat on his knee and tugging the gag free.

“Was it worth it?” Wade asked softly.

The man swallowed, licking his lips. He probably hadn’t been given any water since Minx had escorted him here the night before, but that was fine. It would have been a waste of water.

Wade pulled the knife back slightly, leaving it resting right under the man’s chin.

“She wouldn’t let me get my jack’s worth.” The man’s voice sounded awfully steady for someone who had Wade’s knife ready to kill him if he misstepped. “She tried to cheat me.”

“Hmm.” Wade narrowed his eyes at the man, anger building once again. “You wanted more than what she was willing to give you.”

The man slowly nodded. “Yeah. The dumb Dora got what she deserved.”

With one fluid motion, Wade pulled the gag back into the man’s mouth before standing and snapping his pocket knife closed.

The man squirmed in the chair, trying to say something around the fabric in his mouth. Wade, while he had been around enough gagged people to understand what they were saying most of the time, had no interest in hearing anything more from this man and instead began pulling off his shirt. Blood was hard to get out of light colors, after all.

He picked up his baseball bat and loosened his arm. “I hope you realize you’re about to get what _you_ deserve.”

Wade swung, and bones crunched right off the bat. Muffled screams and the heavy sound of metal hitting flesh were all that could be heard for many minutes. Eventually, the screams dissolved into whimpers and groans.

Wade glanced over at JP and offered the bat. “Want to finish him off?”

JP looked a little pale as he shook his head, but his voice was steady. “No, that’s okay. Maybe next time.”

Wade nodded. He brought the baseball bat down on the man once more, then sighed with a tired sort of satisfaction. Leaning over, he laid the bat across the lap of the corpse. “Hold this for a minute, would you?” It was time to clean the blood off himself.

He paused and looked at JP, standing at the edge of the circle. “Well, you came along to help. Dump the body in a bag— don't dump my bat in with, but add one of those stones over there—and clean up the blood on the floor.”

JP nodded. “I can do that.”

He pulled the heavy burlap bag over the limp corpse, working quickly and efficiently. He couldn’t help but think about how few hits it took for Wade to beat the sap into the big sleep. Wade didn’t even seem like a guy capable of beating a man to death. Sure, he was tall, and the beard made him look a bit wild. His construction work also gave him quite the muscled build, but there was something soft in the man’s eyes—especially when he looked at Molly—that had always given JP the impression Wade only chose the life he was in for her.

Wade took his time cleaning up, watching the bloody water run off his hands and arms and face down into the drain. He was going to go out into the streets again; he had to be spotless.

“Alright, did you clean up everything?” Wade asked as he buttoned his shirt back up and rolled up his sleeves.

“Uh, yeah. Everything’s clean.” JP paused for a moment. “Question, how do you usually hide the bodies after you do these things?”

“People aren’t usually around to see what I’m carrying—nor do they care. People think it’s just some materials for the latest building or something, since I’m normally wearing my work clothes. One of the pros of being a construction worker, I guess.” Wade hefted the bag over his shoulder.

“You really know what you’re doing, huh.”

"I've carried more corpses than I can count. Only now, it's bad guys, instead of the ones I was running headlong into a hail of bullets with." Wade looked distant for a minute before shaking his head. “C’mon, let’s hurry up and get rid of this thing so I can go to bed.”

“You just woke up an hour ago.” JP laughed.

Wade gave him a sour look. “Make sure the streets are clear of coppers. Don’t attract attention. Can you handle that?”

“Why don’t you just walk out? You said people don’t care.” JP raised his eyebrows.

“You can’t just do that, JP. Plus today’s Sunday; I’m not wearing my work clothes.”

“Yes you can.” JP crossed his arms.

Wade sighed. He really was too old for this. “Just go.”

Muttering softly, JP left, returning a minute later with a nod. “It’s clear.”

So it went, one street at a time, for a few minutes.

“Good afternoon.” PJ’s voice chimed cheerfully from behind Wade while JP investigated the next stretch of land.

Wade muttered a curse as PJ stepped into his view.

“What, is it not a good afternoon?” PJ raised a single eyebrow.

Wade glanced at him, but kept an eye out for JP’s next signal.

PJ laughed softly.

“No, no, it is a good afternoon, how’re you doing.” Wade forced a kind smile out, if only to be polite.

“I’m doing just fine.” PJ spared a glance at the bag thrown over Wade’s shoulder. “That was a pretty fun night hangin’ out with fellow friends. You were hitting the drinks pretty hard last night, huh? Practically sloshed the moment the second round began.”

Due to “hitting the drinks pretty hard”, Wade did not want to engage in this conversation for any longer than he had to. “Yeah, guess I did. The juice was too good and I needed to wind down for a bit.” There was a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“That’s for sure. Felix always has the good stuff. That lucky egg, surrounded by all the best booze in Boston.” PJ paused, that infuriatingly calm smile always present. “Well, I had best get a move on. See you around, Wade.” PJ waved, and merrily walked his own way while whistling something Wade couldn’t care less about.

Wade turned around, looking for JP, only to find the kid standing right beside him and not keeping watch.

“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be looking out for bulls,” Wade whispered harshly.

“I was, but tell me. How do you propose lugging our guest here right past the ol’ button over there.” JP pointed to a figure in a familiar uniform—a cop.

“Is he one of the ones letting us be?” Wade squinted at the bull, trying to make out his features.

JP shook his head. “No. I’ve seen him hanging out with Gar, though.” JP tilted his head a bit, as if thinking. “Officer Static?”

Wade sighed. Of course it wasn’t one Molly had bribed to look the other way. “Distract him.”

JP gave Wade a good lookover, then frowned. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take our friend and you run the distraction?”

Wade gave JP a flat look.

JP held his hands in the air. “Alright, alright.” He shook his head. “Pay attention this time, okay?”

Wade sighed, shifting his grip on the body bag slung over his shoulder.

“Alright, here’s what’s going to happen-” Wade turned to JP, but stumbled back as the officer started to turn towards them, dropping the bodybag.

The two were dead quiet as the cop took in the view, blissfully unaware of the body just around the corner. JP was tense as Wade started to pick up the bag, fumbling with it a bit. With a sigh of relief, they watched as Pat turned the other way.

Wade continued, much more careful this time, “So, we’re going to try to sneak past him and make it to the other end of the street without him noticing.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to go around the other way? Just a few few blocks detour gets us to the port, right?”

Wade sighed. Did he really have to deal with this?

“Just distract him while I move past. Pretend it’s a war or something and you’re helping me sneak past enemy lines.”

He was too hungover for this.

Without further argument, JP went up and greeted the bull with some smalltalk. Wade didn’t bother listening in on the conversation, instead he focused on lugging the leaden body as inconspicuously as possible. It didn’t help that not only was it light out, but, being Boston, there were all sorts of obstacles littering his path that made his head hurt while maneuvering around them. These side-streets—or alleyways, really, except the alleys around here were even worse—served as storage for those unfortunate enough to live around here.

Wade was starting to really regret all that whiskey.

As he drew closer, he began to pick up snippets of JP’s conversation.

“Yes, the weather’s quite nice. In fact, it seems almost too nice, like this is some sort of dream. Don’t you agree?”

If it wouldn’t have blown his cover, Wade would have groaned. Nonetheless, it ended up distracting him enough to stumble over a rusted tin can lying in the street. In an instant he ducked into the closest alleyway he could spot, freezing as soon as he was out of sight.

“...Oh, must be the alleycats moving around. They’re all over the place, y’know?”

Wade could hear a muttered response, and breathed a sigh of relief—that is, until the copper’s next comment made his blood run cold.

“Where’s your friend, then? That tall bloke with the beard. I saw the two of you walk by.”

Wade froze in his place and shivered as though the temperature had suddenly dipped. Perhaps today was the day, then. Maybe the bulls would finally catch up to him, after all these years. All he could hear was his own voice, screaming in his head, “My god, we’re going to get caught.”; “This is it, we’re finished. We’re going to the slammer.”; “This is how my life ends… I never got to do the things I wanted to do, never got to propo-”

“Oh, him? He just went to do a special delivery; some ‘essential parts’, or something. He’s a construction worker, him and his team are working on that building, the one right on the corner of Melcher and A Street. You can practically see it from here. Since it’s a Sunday this chap’s going to pay him extra for it—and he really needs the extra dough.”

Wade’s panicked thoughts were interrupted by JP’s latest comment. Did Officer Static buy it? Wade hoped he did.

Why was dumping a body in the pier so difficult and annoying today?

“On a Sunday? No longer the day of rest now, I suppose. And I guess folks would do anything to get a quick buck.” The cop’s voice was amicable. Almost friendly. Somehow, JP had managed to get on the good side of the bull in less time than it took to drag one into a back alley to threaten and bribe.

“For sure.” JP agreed, and small talk once again filled the conversation between JP and Officer Static.

Wade crept forward. This time, he managed to avoid stepping on anything noisy.

He paused in the safety of an adjacent alley, gently putting the body down so it wouldn't make any sort of a ruckus, and took a moment to just breathe.

“You're getting a bit rusty.”

Wade turned sharply to see Jack leaning against the wall behind him. He frowned. “You could have helped.”

Jack snorted. “Oh, no. An Irishman walking with you two? Are you still corked?”

JP walked up, humming cheerfully. “Good afternoon.”

“You did a good job there,” Jack said, chuckling. “Certainly carrying this guy’s weight.” He grinned widely at Wade.

JP looked at Wade, frowned, and looked back to Jack. “I can't lift him. I'm not _that_ strong.”

Jack gave JP a good, long look before nodding. “You’re carrying his weight enough. You're lifting his brains. Not that he's using them much right now anyway.”

Wade sighed, bending to pick up the body bag again.

Jack placed one foot on the bag.

Wade gave him a rather irritated look.

Jack leaned forward, a strangely amused expression on his face. “Just between you and me, the kid could have done this by himself. Which is more than I can say for you at the moment.”

Wade shoved Jack's foot off the bag and slung it over his shoulder again. “I don't care.”

Jack raised his eyebrow. “Ooh, grouchy.” He turned to JP. “Keep an eye on him, so I don't have to.”

JP, distinctly confused, nodded.

Jack tipped his cap to them as the pair walked off.

Wade could feel Jack watching them, and just as they turned the corner he looked back. The street was empty.

Shaking his head at the Irishman’s antics (he really was not in the best state to deal with anything today), the two continued towards the pier. They stayed in the alleyways and small streets, still avoiding the busier streets. Luckily for Wade, the murky waters of the Fort Point Channel soon appeared between the warehouses.

Keeping to the shadows of the alley, he had JP go out and scout for any onlookers in the pier. After a minute or so, JP gave him the signal. He lugged the body bag out into the open, letting out a sigh of relief. After this, he could finally crawl back into bed and just doze off for the rest of the day.

Standing at the edge of the water he and JP prepared to to swing the body into the channel until a voice behind them piped up.

“Extra, extra, read all about it! Another body dumped in the river!”

Wade jumped, his foot skidded, and the two of them had to let go of the body. The heavy bag hit the water with a distinct splash, and it sank quickly, weighted with stones. The sudden loss of such a heavy mass—combined with the effects of his hangover—meant Wade continued to stagger back, dangerously close to the edge. If JP hadn’t reached out and grabbed him by the shirtfront, he was sure he’d be joining the freshly dead corpse at the bottom of the channel.

After JP steadied him Wade turned, smoothing down his clothes and clearing his throat. He came face-to-face with Robin: the man who was, quite simply, a permanent part of Boston. He’d never known the city to be without him as a newsie, and he doubted he ever would.

“What are you doing here?” Wade’s voice, still rough from his hangover, held a mixture of annoyance and nerves.

“Why, I’m the city’s newsie, of course!” Robin met Wade’s heavy tone with an irritatingly cheerful one. “I’m here to sell newspapers to the average Joe.” A wide, slightly sly grin stretched across his face as his eyes wandered over Wade’s shoulder. “I’m sure everyone would love to get an earful about what you and Junior here are doing.”

Wade exchanged a fearful glance with JP, and he swallowed nervously before answering.

“Oh um, JP here was just helping me dispose of some waste after our work today at the construction site.”

Beside him, Wade could sense JP slump in weary exasperation. Robin’s smile changed just enough to tell Wade he didn’t believe his story for a minute.

“Right. Correct me if I’m wrong on this, but aren’t most labor jobs off on Sunday?”

Wade began to sweat nervously as JP fidgeted besides him. Robin continued to glance towards the murky waters behind them before he met Wade’s eyes.

“What was in the bag?”

At this point, Wade seriously contemplated whether or not he and JP could just bump the newsie off and dump him in the channel too before making their escape.

Then, behind Robin, he saw Jack standing in the shadows of the alley and- _did he just wave at him?_

Shaking his head, Wade slumped.

“How much do you want?”

Robin’s grin grew wider, if that was possible. “To keep mum?”

Wade nodded.

Robin gave Wade a long look, then nodded. “Five dollars.”

Wade instinctively bristled. “That's almost a whole day's work.”

“You work two jobs, don't you?” Robin raised an eyebrow and held out his hand.

JP sighed—it sounded suspiciously like a soft laugh—and patted Wade comfortingly on the shoulder. He’d ask Wade about the newsie knowing about both jobs later.

Wade groaned, but gave in to the newsie’s demands.

Robin gave a little bow, grinned cheekily, and walked off with the bribe in his pocket.

Wade turned to JP. “Don't tell Molly. For the love of god, please don’t tell her.”

JP chuckled. “And how were you planning on keeping _me_ quiet?”

Wade gave him a flat look, and JP flashed that “innocent” smile of his.

Wade had had enough antics to last the rest of this mess of a day. With a hard look in his eyes he gathered a fist of JP’s shirt and leaned the younger man back, out over the water. JP’s eyes grew wide, and he suddenly gripped onto Wade’s arm, motions frantic as he fought to regain his balance.

“Okay, okay, okay. I won’t tell her. I won’t tell anybody about it. I swear on my life just please- put me down, Wade!” JP was pleading and squirming in Wade’s grip. Clearly, Wade’s message had come across.

Wade pulled him in, then turned and began to walk home. He was far too hungover to deal with any of this.


	9. “Bulls’ Beef with Brawls Backfires”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We update it with every new chapter!
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> Today's tunes:
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> My Favorite Things- John Coltrane

**_Tuesday, September 10, 1919_ **

_Boston police have a lot to answer for after allowing a clash between the heads of the Liguoris and the McLaughlin boys to escalate to the point of civilian casualties. Many people uninvolved with either gang died, leaving children without parents and a whole neighbourhood’s streets running with blood._

_What began as a simple scuffle between the two mobs quickly took the lives of several locals. In the ensuing panic, more and more bullets were fired and more and more screams sounded. Wounds from gunshot, shrapnel, and trampling from the rush of the frantic were treated at Boston City Hospital._

_When the gunfire ceased, well over two dozen bodies lay scattered in the street, including all but one member of the Woodward family._

_Some good came of this, however, as the leader of the McLaughlin boys was found among the dead, and rumors have spread that the Liguori godfather was severely injured._

_That good does not erase the innocent blood spilled by the negligence of those who are supposed to protect._

_This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil._

It had to be at least two in the morning. No one in their right mind would even dream of being up at this ungodly hour. It was ridiculous, but if the boss needed a job to be done, it had to be done. Jordan straightened his shoulders, hid a quick yawn, and tightened up his tie.

“Alright, what have we got here?” Jordan inquired as he stepped into the room, expecting anyone in the group to answer.

“We found this one trying to snoop around the house. Probably trying to get some intel on us while that meeting was going on.” a voice from within the small crowd of men spoke up.

“You fellas couldn’t take me to your boss, but you brought in one of his capos?” The suspect spoke up, their voice identifying them as a woman with a strong English accent. “That shows a lot cowardice on all your parts, doesn’t it?”

“The boss is busy. You’re going to tell me what you’re doing here, Emma. That’s all I want,” he stated. As one of the caporegime in the Liguori family, not many refused him when he spoke with that tone.

Their prisoner looked the capo up and down before giving a disbelieving scoff. The woman’s tone was confident, even as several men wrestled her in front of Jordan. “Doubt I have anything _you’d_ want. Maybe try the harbor. There’s always fish out there lookin’ for worms.”

He sighed, looking down at her. It was pleasantly surprising to realize just how short this newest member of the Irish mob really was. Usually, people were taller.

“Do you need me to say ‘good morning’ to get you in a better mood?”

Emma glared at him. “It’ll be a good morning when a turncoat like yourself is dead.”

Jordan crossed his arms. “We’re doing it that way, then.” He nodded to his men. “Let’s get her settled.” As they dragged her past him, she lashed out and managed to get a kick in on his kneecap.

Jordan muttered uncomplimentary things under his breath as he waited a moment, dismissing the rest of the mafia who were present. By the time he stepped into the other room, Emma had been tied to a chair. Judging by the bloody nose one of his men was now sporting, she’d kept fighting.

“How does it feel to work for your biggest enemy?” Emma scowled at him. “Does it feel good to know you hurt people who cared for you?”

“Rhett can take a swim in the harbor.” Jordan stalked up to her, scowling back. “Why did he send you?”

Emma paused, as if taken aback by something he said. Then she shook her head.

“Information’s power, Sparklez. The McLaughlins are rising.”

Jordan swore softly, and turned to one of his men. “Get the forger,” he ordered, then forced himself to loosen his frame.

Emma laughed. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Proactivity and power in the Irish mob?” She leaned as far forward in her chair as possible. “How do you like it now?”

Jordan hummed. “I’d like it a lot better if you didn’t find insulting me to be one of your favorite pastimes,” he responded with a shrug, adjusting the cuff of his suit. “As for the new job, yeah. I’d say it’s going pretty damn well. I mean,” he smirked, “Which one of us is tied to the chair, again, just…? Oh right, it’s you, that’d be you.”

Emma glared daggers at Jordan, but rather than spitting metaphorical poison in the form of insults, she decided to be a bit more literal with her distaste of him. She spat, smirking when the wet glob landed smack dead on one of Jordan’s polished black shoes. “Oops, my bad. I just get so choked up around big, strong men like you. I mean, snatchin’ a girl up and tying her down is hard work, innit? That why you needed four or five of your _soldati_?” She drew the last word out, completely butchering the pronunciation, and sneering up at Jordan as she did so.

Jordan’s lip curled and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, lifting his leg to wipe the spittle off his shoe. “Pleasant and lovely as ever, aren’t you Emma? Still single, I take it?”

“Happily.” Emma grinned and finally leaned back in her chair, as if she wasn’t being forced to sit there at all. She even went so far as to cross her legs—like a man, of course, just because she knew it would rile a few of them up. “Still caught up in the marriage between your hand and your dick, I see.”

That one got a few chortles out of the men lingering in the room with them, and Jordan scowled, his eyes narrowing. Emma met his gaze head-on, and the electricity from the tension could nearly be heard crackling in the space between. However, the sound of footsteps broke the mounting pressure and Jordan looked up, over Emma’s shoulder.

When he made eye contact with a bespectacled brunette, a fresh smile curled onto his lips. It was Emma’s turn to narrow her eyes as a small stack of papers was passed into Jordan’s eager hands.

“Wotcha got there, Captain Sparkle-britches? Ya finally learn how to read, or somethin’?”

Jordan met Emma’s wary jibe with an easy smile as he flipped through the documents in his hands. “Oh no, no. I’m able to read all of these _juuust_ fine, Emma. The real question here is, can you?” Silently, he flipped the papers around so Emma could get a look.

Instantly, her eyes widened, and her muscles tensed as she jumped against the restraints holding her down. “Where the bloody fockin’ _hell_ did ya get those, ye damn bastard?! You snake! I _knew_ you noodles had someone sleazy on the inside!” Emma spat out a few more choice, profane insults that would probably make a schoolteacher faint.

Jordan merely hummed and turned the documents back around to gaze at them. “Oh, Emma, Emma, _Emma._ Does it really matter _where_ or _how_ I got these? I’d be more concerned about the _why,_ if I were you. I mean, you _do_ know what these are, right?” Clutching the papers, Jordan gave them a bit of a wave; clearly amused at how Emma’s eyes tracked their movement like a hawk.

Her lip curled into a snarl, her eyebrows low in a show of anger. “I know if you cowards hadn’t tied me down at least _two_ of my limbs would be so far up yer damn arse they could call ye a cannibal.”

Jordan chuckled. “Ouch, geez. Such venom. Is that _really_ how you want to talk to the guy holding the foundation of your life in his hands? Your _new_ life, here in the good ol’ U.S. of A.? I mean, these are your _immigration papers,_ Emma. All legal and verified, of course, of course. You’re too smart to take a risk. Or… are you?” He lightly brushed at his chin with a quirked brow, as if honestly questioning Emma’s intelligence.

Emma snarled at him again, wrists twisting in her restraints. The chair legs thumped hard against the cement and one of the other men stepped forward, but Jordan held them off with a simple raise of his hand, shaking his head.

“If she topples over and hurts herself, it’s her own damn fault. Don’t bother. She’s not getting out of those ropes and that’s what counts.”

“Aw yeah, ‘cause none of you half-seas over four-flushers got the bollocks to intimidate a woman like me the fair and proper way?! Wot, just ‘cause I’ve got some bubs, all of a sudden ye gotta go and play dirty? Fuck off! Ye sorry excuse for an upstage wurp, this is exactly why the mob was too good for you! Not a single one missed yer ugly arse once it was gone, might as well’ve been kicked right out the door like a bloke’s mistress in her damn skivvies ye American chav!”

There was a few beats of silence punctuated only by Emma’s harsh, quicken breaths after her rant. Jordan was, admittedly, looking at her a bit wide-eyed; mostly it was due to his brain attempting to sort through the mix of slang from the two sides of the Atlantic.

He shook it off and held up the papers again. “...quaint. So, anyway! Getting back to my point… I’m gonna make this easy for you, Emma. ‘Cause I used to like you, really I did-”

“Bugger that!!”

“-but we just can’t have you running and telling those damn potatoes all our secrets. So I’m gonna offer you a deal. Keep that filthy mouth of yours shut about us, about anything you’ve heard here, or anywhere- about _alla this-_ and you get your papers back. A little slap on the wrist, and a pleasant nudge out the back door. Free to return home and, _tattoo women’s chests,_ to your little British heart’s content.” Jordan wiggled his fingers in a mystical sort of gesture, clearly mocking.

Emma was still glowering at him, though she’d given up on struggling again. “Don’t look so chuffed. What makes ye think I’ll agree to that bull? You’ve lost the plot if ye think this’ll go so tickety-boo. Quit takin’ the piss and cough up your _threat_ already.”

Jordan let out a short, dismissive exhale from his nose. “Very well. _Refuse_ the mafia’s generous offer, and I’ll be handing over these documents to our forger. We’ll keep hands on the real copies while letting the obviously illegal documents slip back onto the desk of a _certain government official_ who is so _very_ passionate about rooting out all the illegals he can find in this most wonderful city of Boston, Massachusetts.” He lifted and spread out his arms to emphasize his mocking tone.

Emma eyed Jordan for a few moments before sitting back again with a dubious expression. “Ye cuck. You don’t plan on givin’ me back those papers at all. At least, not the real ones. Just how fockin’ slow do you think I am?”

Jordan, obviously having reached some peak of amusement, leaned in with a smug grin. “Slow enough to get yourself caught,” he murmured.

They fastened stares, and already the level of suspense rose in the room. Neither of the silent combatants could be read in that moment. They were having a war all their own, in eyes and expression, the most subtle of facial twitches conveying another move on an invisible chess board.

Finally, Emma puffed out an irritated sigh and slumped in her chair. She rolled her eyes as she turned her head to the side, looking pointedly away from Jordan and his smug face.

“Fine. _Fine._ I won’t tell the Irish anythin’.”

“Swear on your fragile citizenship?”

“I swear.” Emma glanced back at Jordan with a sharp look. “But if I find out you arsehole skivers decided to screw me over anyway, I’m comin’ after all of you with a bag full’a sharp needles and a vengeance. Don’t need a license to perform a lobotomy, _if ye catch my meaning._ ” Emma’s chilling tone promised more than keeping a few secrets.

Jordan cleared his throat, consciously forcing himself from tugging at the collar of his dress shirt. Honestly, women in this town. Terrifying. The lot of them. He shook his head and gave a wave of his hand while he slipped the documents into his suit jacket. “Your freedom’s safe for now, Miss Blackery. Just be sure to keep your end of the bargain.”

“Oh, I will, Maron. Ye reuben sinker.” A hint of deviousness crossed Emma’s face as she watched Jordan, two men cautiously untying her limbs. _“I will.”_

The men escorted her out, and Jordan nodded in satisfaction. It was time to report on how that had gone. One of the bosses was usually awake at this hour.

Jordan walked the halls quietly, trying to avoid waking anyone, until he came to a room on the second floor. He softly tapped on the door.

After a moment or so, the door opened to reveal PJ. He wasn't quite as dressed up as usual, but Jordan was sure PJ's suit jacket was inside the room.

“I've got a report.”

PJ slipped out of the room and mostly closed the door behind him before nodding. “Let's hear it.”

Fortunately, it didn’t take long to update PJ on the situation. Soon enough they were standing back at the door, PJ still nodding at his last comments.

“I'll have Yami keep an eye on her.” PJ clapped Jordan on the shoulder. “Good work. Go ahead and get some shuteye.”

Jordan yawned, then glanced as if trying to see behind the other closed door in the room. “How is he?”

PJ made a face. “He'll be with us for a few more years, but they won’t be pleasant.”

Jordan winced sympathetically.

“If things get worse, you know either Yami or I would tell you.”

Jordan sighed. “It's just hard, seeing someone suffer so much.”

PJ nodded. “These are hard days.” He put his hand on the doorknob, and Jordan dipped his head.

PJ went back inside the room, once again closing the door behind him. He glanced over at the bed in the room, and the sleeping figure on it. He wasn't about to wake the boss if he could help it, so he went over to the desk in the room and returned to his previous task.

It wasn’t long before PJ was once again interrupted, this time by raspy Italian rather than a hesitant knock on the door. Instantly, he stood and moved over to the bed.

 _“I see you’ve decided to not sneak off tonight,”_ the boss murmured in Italian, eyes fixed on PJ. _“Where have you been? What has gotten your attention?”_

PJ paused. The boss knew almost everything that happened in the lives of the members, and yet PJ had managed to hide something nonetheless. Playing music at a speakeasy run by the Orchids in the middle of Irish territory was quite a secret to keep, but it would make for an even harder explanation.

The boss seemed to smile in the dim light of the room. _“Now, now, I was a young stallion like you once, seeking to plant my seed..."_

PJ sputtered. Had he been drinking anything at that moment, it would have been sprayed across the room.

A soft chuckle rose from the boss. _“You could have said something about her, instead of leaving me to wonder.”_

PJ bowed his head. _“I wasn’t sure anything would come of it. I didn’t want to get your hopes up if things went badly.”_ He probably should have felt bad about lying to the boss, but if pretending to be chasing after some woman was keeping him out of trouble, then he would take it. _“I’m still not sure if it will go anywhere.”_

 _“She’ll come around.”_ The boss was definitely smiling at this point. _“You’re a fine man. Tell me about her.”_

PJ smiled. So far, so good. _“A_ bambolina _, if ever I met one.”_

A nod and a wider smile.

 _“She only recently came to Boston, but she’s settling in well.”_ PJ paused. Did he need a description of her? _“She’s fairly timid. We’ve had a few longer conversations, but most are short. She seems to be slowly warming up to me, I think.”_

The boss laughed briefly before a soft grunt of pain ended the sound. _“You need to be bolder.”_

PJ pretended to consider that before shaking his head. _“No, I don’t want to scare her. She deserves better than that.”_

A soft chuckle, though PJ could hear the boss’ pain. _“Of course. That explains why you haven’t ever taken anyone with you.”_

PJ dipped his head, smiling.

The boss dropped his head against his pillow for a moment, breathing hard, before looking back to PJ. _“I would like to meet this young woman of yours.”_

 _“In time.”_ PJ nodded. _“If I ever get far enough for that.”_

 _“Have confidence. It will show.”_ The boss smiled again for a minute before his expression became more serious. _“I hope, though, in your quest for her affection, you have been careful to ensure we remain strong.”_ The boss met PJ’s gaze. _“Not to weaken the family with too much outside blood.”_

PJ straightened his shoulders. _“I have not forgotten. Regaining our strength is vital.”_

The boss nodded slowly, as if considering something. _“The leader of the McLaughlins...”_ He let out a long sigh. _“They’ve grown too powerful. We don’t have the numbers to overwhelm them through raw strength. But if we can remove Rhett, we can strike in their confusion.”_

PJ nodded slowly. _“He’s almost never seen in public anymore, and we don’t have the means to hunt him down in his own territory.”_

 _“We simply need information.”_ The boss mused. _“If we can learn anything, we’ll be in a better position to strike.”_

_“They probably know that.”_

_“Of course they do. They haven’t gotten to where they are without knowing things.”_ The boss paused. _“If we could cut off that information, they would be weakened.”_

PJ nodded.

The boss looked back over to PJ. _“Madame Foxglove, however, is very accessible. The Orchids owe their entire existence to her. If we can remove her, they will collapse.”_

PJ thought to Molly, and to Wade. _“She’s never unprotected.”_

 _“Yes, there is always that man at her side.”_ The boss scowled. _“Removing just one of them won’t stop the Orchids.”_ The boss settled back into a better resting position. _“Perhaps we can take care of them at the same time. Then, we can take control of the chaos.”_

“ _How do you suppose we do that? You always have a plan for things like this.”_ PJ leaned forward in his seat. It was time to plan their next move.


	10. “Draft Title”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We update it with every new chapter!
> 
> Today's Tunes:
> 
> Reflections- Thelonious Monk

**_Monday, September 23, 1923_ **

_Between the beauty of roses and the threat of foxglove, flowers play a significant part in Boston’s daily life. jjjjooldingnn_

  
  


_taptaptaptap        woh_

_hign_ _ghngslannbeidh_ _se_ _athruhhgnngoing..iinlni!_

_sam billy betty_

_tEh NOses r s coL_

  
  


_thair tol_

_gujn,aegnaon_

  
  


_....I’m going to hide this before Dan sees it and realizes those kids played with the typewriter._

The warehouse was silent, with only the occasional snore from one of the nearby sleeping areas below to even give away anyone was in it.

Usually, people on watch stayed on the second floor, but there was something about being this high up on the catwalk. It was like he could see everything, and do anything to protect those sleeping in the warehouse. So there he sat, next to one of the few tall windows that hadn’t been boarded up, using the light of the moon to inspect his rifle. It wasn’t as good as doing it under some proper light, or during the day, but he didn’t want to wake anyone.

Besides, it was something to do during the guard watch.

Soft shuffling and the faint sound of bare feet on metal came from behind him. Jack turned to see three small figures standing there, hugging themselves or holding a ragged blanket.

“What’re you three doing up?” Jack asked softly, examining the spuds.

“Sleep is scary,” Sam murmured, rubbing the one eye they still had left. “It took me back to ma and pa.”

Jack looked over the three kids once again, then glanced out the window to check for a change. “Nightmares, all three of you?”

Quiet nods.

Jack sighed, setting his rifle to the side. He could finish checking it over later. “Do you want to help me keep watch?”

More nods.

“Come here, then.” Jack shifted, making room for the kids. Almost instantly, Billy and Betty settled on either side of him, allowing the younger Sam to climb onto Jack’s lap. There they nestled, pressed up against his warmth, and for a few moments everything was quiet.

Jack rested his chin on Sam’s head, returning the majority of his attention to watching the street. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, or any of the other spuds. No matter what, you’re safe here.”

The three children curled into him, but their bodies were still tense.

These three had lived long lives already. They’d seen a lot of stuff go down. Betty was the oldest of these three spuds. She’d been here for four years, ever since that awful molasses disaster had taken her parents; had left her an orphan at the age of seven. Billy had just wanted to be free from all kinds of restrictions. Sam wanted a family that would leave them in peace.

None of them deserved their old lives. None of them deserved this life they had now, either.

Jack decided to lighten the mood. “So, do anything interesting today?”

Betty immediately beamed. “Ooh, there was this one chump I pinched today! He was all goofy and weird, but he had some good dough on him!”

“Nice score. Was he a noodle?”

“Hmm.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so, but he did look funny! He had this poofy beard thingy, and Sam said he was carrying some big thing earlier. Oh! And there was this younger guy with him for a while.”

Jack blew sharp puffs of air out of his nostrils, barely able to hold back a laugh. He’d be willing to bet he knew _exactly_ who Betty pickpocketed. Poor guy must have had a rough day.

Billy, who was pressed into Jack’s side, said nothing. Jack could see through the boy’s ‘stoic bruno’ look, though; it was clear Billy found it funny as well.

“I found a few good pebbles today,” Sam murmured, much quieter than Betty. The child was falling asleep.

Jack smiled gently. Sam had taken to the slingshot remarkably well in the past few months; that missing eye didn’t seem to hinder the kid’s aim in the slightest.

“Hey, look.” Billy pointed out of the window at a lone figure in the distance, staggering down the dim street.

Jack glanced them over, and though it was odd to see someone alone at this time of the night, they didn’t seem dangerous. Judging by their movement, they were likely drunk, too. Probably walking home from a speakeasy.

Jack relaxed and was about to wave the man off when Sam sat up. “I wanna shoot him! Can I? Please?”

Of course, the child wasn’t talking about Jack’s rifle. No opportunity was wasted when it came to the slingshot.

“Well,” Jack drawled, watching the kid pout at him, “ ...I don’t see why not.”

The kid grinned from ear to ear and reached for their slingshot, only to find it missing. After a brief moment of confusion, Betty snickered, handing it over.

Sam huffed and loaded the slingshot. As they took aim at the unfortunate pedestrian, Jack noted how level the kid’s breathing was.

“Hurry up already,” Billy grunted, only to be shushed.

A few more moments passed before the band of the slingshot snapped back. They all watched the man in the distance recoiled and paused, a few unsavory shouts slurring out as they all broke into quiet laughter. Jack frantically signaled for them to stop, his own hand over his mouth, so as to not draw attention to their location. The man continued to curse in fits until he eventually stumbled away, and the group burst out laughing.

“Seán?” A voice called from below, making the kids jump.

Jack leaned over the railing and saw Rhett staring up at them.

“Don’t mind me,” the tall man said. “Just here to give ya the report on what’s happening in the city.”

Jack paused. “Give me a minute to put the kids to bed, yeah?”

The spuds pouted, but didn’t protest as he herded them off the catwalk and moved them towards the sleeping quarters. Before making sure they’d all been tucked away Jack walked out into the main warehouse area and turned to Rhett.

“Make it quick.”

“No sign of them dog racers from a few days back. That must’a been their only joint.” Rhett looked as relieved as Jack felt. “Bulls came close to busting the gambling ring, but Link got ‘em off our backs. Territory’s borders are the same, but the Orchids have been pushing it. Heard they dumped a body recently, but other than that, nothin’ new. Linguine’s have been lying low. Could be planning something big.”

Jack nodded. “Might need another few eyes on the streets-”

“Hey, big potato!” Billy shouted. “We’re waiting in here!” A few grumbles and muttered curses from the sleeping quarters drifted through the warehouse.

He waved Rhett off, making a mental note to go over the report again later. For now, though, Jack had to tuck the three spuds in.

The beds were in rows, and luckily none of the other kids were awake: those who had been woken by Billy’s shout had already fallen back to sleep. Betty was bouncing in her bed impatiently. Sam was already curled up under the sheets. Billy was lounging around, clearly trying to look like he couldn’t care less. He really needed to work on that look.

Jack tucked them in and was about to leave when he glanced back at them.

They seemed surprised when he started singing softly, leaning against the doorframe. Then they relaxed to the tune of the lullaby. It had been one his mum would sing for him, so it only seemed fitting.

“ _Seothó seothú ló_

_Seothú ló_

“ _Mo ghaol, mo ghrá 'gus m'eadúil thú_

_Mo stoirín úr is m'fhéirín thú_

_Mo mhacán álainn scéimheach thú_

_Chan fiú mé féin bheith 'd dháil_

“ _Alleluia… Seothó seothú ló_

_Seothú ló_

_Seothú ló_ ”

Jack gave the children one last look over. All of them were sleeping soundly. With a smile, he left the room and pulled the heavy curtain closed before turning back to Rhett. “Alright. Was there anything else, or is the city unusually quiet?”

Rhett shook his head. “City’s unusually quiet.” He paused. “You said something about more eyes on the streets?”

Jack nodded, walking back over to where he’d left his rifle against the ladder. There were a few empty crates around, and he settled onto one.

Rhett sat across from him. “We don’t have enough men trained for that, and if we do train some we’ll be short elsewhere.”

Jack tilted his head slightly, sparing a glance at Rhett before letting his gaze travel to the room where the spuds slept. Some of the older ones were sixteen, even seventeen. “They learn fast.”

“I thought we were going to keep the kids out of it.”

“We’re not going to force them into anything.” Jack frowned. “But we should ask the older ones. They need to start finding permanent places here.” He returned his gaze to  the window, even if this lower vantage didn’t give him quite the view the catwalk did. “Before the world decides to find a place for them,” he added softly.

Rhett made a face, but nodded. “I won’t force them to do anything.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” His voice was hard, for a moment. Jack paused, watching as shadows stretching across the street slowly turned into a single figure. “Has Link gotten back yet?”

Rhett shook his head. “I was hoping he’d have gotten here before I did. Do you see him?”

“Well, there was someone outside earlier. So either it’s him, or some other person who looks like him.” Jack glanced at Rhett.

Rhett nodded, standing and heading to the stairs leading to the ground floor. He seemed like he wanted to say something more as he paused, but then he shook his head and continued on.

Jack picked up his rifle and took a look down the scope. He wasn’t aiming to shoot, at least not yet, but he needed to get a better look at whoever this was approaching the warehouse.

Yup.

It was Link.

Jack nodded to himself and lowered his rifle. Everyone was safe, even just for a little bit longer.

While he kept most of his attention on the street, Jack also returned to inspecting his rifle, now that it was in his hands again. Keeping it in excellent condition was a matter of life and death—usually for the person on the receiving end, but it had saved Jack’s life more than a few times.

“I can’t believe he’s the one in charge.” Rhett’s voice was barely audible as it floated up to where Jack was sitting. “Why did Dad choose him as the next boss?”

“You said you didn’t want the job.” Link’s voice was just as soft, but significantly more even than Rhett’s. “He’s been doing aces.”

“He wants to bring some of the spuds into action.”

A long moment of silence. Jack frowned. If Rhett wasn’t telling Link the full story, then Jack was in deep trouble. It was bad enough Rhett was upset with the way he was doing things, but Link siding with Jack had been the main thing stopping Rhett from declaring rebellion.

“We don’t have a choice, Rhett.” Link’s voice had a distinct edge to it now. “At least spying around the city keeps them out of the fighting.”

“It’s not right.”

“What would _you_ do instead?” Link sighed. “You know as well as I do that you’d just have to come up with some kind of alternative and Seán will listen. Having beef with him won’t do anyone any good. It’s not going to keep us safe.”

Another long moment.

“How did Dad know Seán was the best choice? He came over right after the war ended, and he was a dealer. A _dealer_. Where did he learn the skills to run the mob?”

“I imagine the same place he learned to shoot like he does,” Link said.

“Why would _any_ military make a sniper in charge of men?”

Link sighed. “You remember how bad it got.”

Another silence. At this point, Jack was too focused on the conversation happening nearby and not focused enough on keeping watch.

“Besides,” Link continued, “everyone likes him. He’s still learning, but he’s kept people from following in Jordan’s footsteps. And it’s kept _him_ from leaving. We can’t lose our best sniper again.”

A soft grumble, then a defeated sigh. “Fine. You win.” Another pause. “I don’t want to have to choose who to train by myself.”

“I’ll help you,” Link promised. “In the morning, though. It took almost an hour to really shake the bulls, and I’m bushed.”

“Alright.”

There was yet another pause.

“Rhett? Be kind to Seán. We have our families here. He left his in Ireland.”

At the reminder, Jack’s hand drifted to his pocket, to the letter he always kept there. His watch would be over soon, and then he could read it again.

The last hour of his watch was quiet. Very quiet. Nothing really stirred out on the street (other than the alley cat that was always watching), and the only sound from within the warehouse was the soft creak of the building and the muted breaths of those sleeping.

When Jack was relieved from watch he quietly made his way to his room. During the day when he was trying to concentrate, having his own room was nice, but after overhearing the conversation between Rhett and Link it felt lonely.

Jack closed the door and sat on the mattress tucked in the corner before pulling out the familiar, worn letter.

_Seán,_

_It’s gotten pretty bad over here. I’m not going to lie, it’s terrifying._

_But we’re safe. I’m safe. Your parents and siblings are safe. We’re making it, one day at a time._

_I hope it’s better there in America. I don’t know what job you have that allows you to send us so much money, but it helps so much. Without it, I don’t think we would be able to stay afloat._

_I miss you terribly. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, I’ve almost forgotten what you look like. I know it’s necessary for you to be there, and to be gone, but I miss you. I miss the time we spent together before the war._

_I want to come to America, to Boston, to join you. Everything is arranged already. If all goes well, I should arrive in Boston on the 19th of September. I will look for you in the harbor. Wear the necklace I gave you. It’s been so long it’s the only sure way I’ll be able to recognize you._

_With love,_

_Signe_

Jack smoothed his hand over the crinkled paper, smiling faintly. Today was the morning of the 17th. Two more days, and he would see her again.

Oh, he missed her.

Jack folded the letter up and returned it to his pocket, then felt for the familiar weight around his neck. It only took a moment for him to pull the _claddagh_ locket from under his shirt to hold it in his hand before opening it to look at the photo within. She’d sent this tiny picture four years ago, when they had decided they would court each other. She’d only been seventeen then.

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. Two days, and he would get to see the woman Signe had become. It had been ten years since he’d properly seen her.

He glanced out his window, only to see the moon shining brightly, bathing the room in its glow. He wasn’t sure if he was in a singing mood because of the lullaby he’d treated the spuds to earlier, or if he was just so, so _ready_ to see Signe again but a song, unbidden, sprung to mind in that moment.

So he sang. Softly, of course, so as not to wake anyone, but he sang:

“I see the moon, the moon sees me,

The moon sees somebody I want to see,

So, God bless the moon and God bless me,

And God bless the somebody I want to see.

“I see the moon, the moon sees me,

The moon sees somebody I want to see,

So, God bless the moon and God bless me,

And God bless the somebody I want to see.

“So, God bless the moon and God bless me,

And God bless the somebody I want to see.

God bless the moon, God bless me,

And God bless the somebody I want to see.”


	11. “Constitutional Commemorative Celebration in Common”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:
> 
> Moon Dreams - Miles Davis  
> I Get a Kick Out of You - Cole Porter

####  Monday, September 17, 1923

_ Happen to have this glorious Monday off? Have some time free after work? Got nowhere to be this pleasant September’s eve? Well, you’re in luck, Boston! Today, at six o’clock sharp, there will be a special engagement hosted in Boston Common by Supreme Justice Arthur Prentice Carpett and Associate Justice Jason Thomas Fischbach. The event will be commemorating the 136th Anniversary of the signing of our Constitution in Philadelphia. _

_ There will be a special service for all military veterans and current personnel, along with an address to those who have fallen in defense of our great nation. Associate Justice Fischbach, who served in the Great War as a radio operator, will be giving several speeches for both the fallen and for the current government policies. Lieutenant Fischbach, who served in the Sino-Japanese War and then as a veteran at Fort Independence until his unfortunate death several years ago, was succeeded by Associate Justice Fischbach and his brother, Mark Fischbach. Mr. Fischbach currently assists their mother in the upkeep of The Tiny Box, a small restaurant in South Boston. _

_ When questioned about his reasoning behind the event, as one hundred and thirty-six years isn’t much of a commemorative anniversary, Associate Justice Fischbach had this to say: “Today is a day of remembrance: for the constitution we've been fighting to protect and uphold; for the rights it grants to protect our citizens; and the amendments made to it for that very same reason. Now, more than ever, people should respect the written word of the government and condemn anyone treasonous enough to break its laws, no matter how new they may be." Controversial words from a supremely pro-Prohibition judge! _

_ Here’s to seeing all the good citizens of Boston at the Common this evening for an experience that’s sure to leave a mark on Boston’s great history. _

_ This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil. _

_ Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column! _

Ethan woke to silence. That was pretty normal, though, so he wasn't worried. It just meant Brian and Gerald were already at work. Ethan rolled out of bed, instantly looking for the clock in his room. How much time did he have until his shift started at the Tiny Box?

The hands read 1:30 in the afternoon.

Ethan cursed and jumped into action. He’d slept in again. Sure, his shift didn’t start until 3, but he still had things to do: eat, and get ready for the day, and actually arrive at the Tiny Box before three. That gave him an hour to do everything.

It was probably for the better that Ethan got there as early as he possibly could. He did his best to take some of the workload off Mark, especially since he hadn’t been looking too hot in the past couple of weeks. Ethan wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, either; Brian and Gerald had brought it up during their breaks, and Amy had been checking on him frequently, too. Mark, however, always insisted he was doing “hunky dory,” and claim, “I’m fine. Just a little tired,” even though it looked like he hadn’t slept well in decades.

One of these days, Ethan would have to coordinate with the whole crew and restrain Mark in a bed for a few weeks. He bet the people that came to Freddy’s every night would be on board with that. Felix, Jack, PJ, Wade—just the whole joint, really.

The last time he’d seen everybody was at the poker game on Saturday. He’d never really played enough poker to get the gist of it like everyone else. Although, it wasn’t just his inexperience that had lost him a grand—his nerves had never really faded when he’d realized just who was in the room with him and Mark and Tyler. It had messed with his judgement on more than one occasion. Even so, Ethan felt he hadn't done too badly at his first time playing with actual money. 

Ethan could still remember how on edge he’d been the week after discovering PJ’s identity. It had taken him a few days, as well, to convince himself PJ really was the acting boss of the mafia. It just seemed so unlikely that such a man would be playing at Freddy’s every night.

Then few weeks later he found out that Jack, who he’d thought was just some Irish live wire, was none other than the head of the mob. There were times when he wondered if there was something special about Freddy’s, to have two crime bosses under its roof every night.

So that evening at Felix’s hadn’t been as laid back as Mark or Tyler had experienced it to be. There were a few times where he wished he had spilled PJ’s and Jack’s identities. Then everyone could be as nervous as he was with the Irish mob boss, the acting Italian godfather, Madame Foxglove, and the richest man in Boston all sitting around one table. Playing poker.

He’d been a little surprised that the two detectives had managed to walk out with their winnings that night.

All these thoughts ran through his head as he himself ran around. Fortunately for him, there was enough food in the apartment for him to make a simple meal. It bubbled cheerfully on the stove as he darted about, half-dressed in his uniform, making sure everything was together and ready to go.

As he made his way to the Tiny Box, Ethan mentally prepared himself for the day. He had to admit, there were always some interesting characters who came into the Tiny Box. Brian, Gerald, and himself would always tell each other the stories they heard throughout their shift—with anonymity and privacy intact, of course. Some things people shared could never be added to the metaphorical grapevine.

Some of the things on his own mind could never be shared with them, either. They didn’t work at Freddy’s. According to them, he got back to their apartment at six in the morning because he worked a second job—as a janitor. It wasn’t a complete lie; he sometimes did double as a janitor at Freddy’s when a patron upchucked.

He also couldn’t tell them about  the regular band members at Freddy’s—how one was the leader of the McLaughlin Boys, and the other a high-up member of the Liguori family. He was sure Mark didn’t know, and Ethan wasn’t going to tell him, not if he could help it. Mark had enough on his plate as it was. 

There was also the distinct possibility that the second either PJ or Jack found out about the true identity of the other, Ethan would be scrubbing blood from the floor of Freddy’s, and blood took forever to clean up.

More importantly, Ethan didn’t want to lose any of his friends.

Speaking of friends, he’d found a new one in JP, the kid who followed Wade around. He was really smart, but he was carrying a weight older than his years.

There was a story behind that: JP had watched his family die by gunfire four years ago. He’d still been a child, then. JP had never seemed bothered by this part of his past when they talked, however; and they did talk. Sometimes he would come by the Tiny Box before closing and the two of them would bump gums as Ethan cleaned up. Other times they would sit down, properly, and talk about more important matters.

Maybe they were friends now. Were they friends? That would be nice.

Ethan ducked into a back alley and walked to the employee entrance of the Tiny Box, straightening his vest as he entered. If the soft giggles in the alley were any indication, the kids that usually showed up at this time were hovering. They were probably waiting for Mrs. Fishbach to slip them some sweets.

He walked in through the back entrance. Instantly, he was surrounded by the amazing smells and wonderful sounds that always accompanied the kitchen of the Tiny Box.

“It’s a busy day.” Brian swept by Ethan, carrying a whole bunch of food. “Don’t have time to chat. Talk to the boss.”

Ethan nodded, turning and looking for Mrs. Fischbach. Until Mark arrived in an hour, she was in charge. 

A brief conversation with Mark’s mom later Ethan was out on the restaurant floor, darting around, talking with customers and serving their food. There were a lot of unfamiliar faces today, but plenty of regulars, too. If it was like this already, Ethan didn’t want to think about the meal rush.

A familiar laugh broke Ethan away from the regular routine of waiting, and he glanced up to see Mark walking onto the floor, interacting with customers with a broad smile that didn’t quite hide the weariness in his eyes.

On the other side of the room, Brian glanced up from taking someone’s order and met Ethan’s gaze. He’d noticed too, then.

The next time Ethan stepped into the back, Gerald pulled him aside. “Did Mark get any sleep last night? Do you know?”

Ethan shook his head. “I haven’t had the chance to talk to him yet.”

Gerald frowned. “Let’s see how much we can help him out, then.”

Ethan nodded. “Of course.” He glanced out into the main area. Several of his tables needed attending to. “I’ll do the best I can.”

Gerald nodded, and then the two plunged back into the main floor.

For a while, the three waiters were able to sneak tasks away from Mark, taking away his excuses to be up and doing things.

It didn’t last long, and ended finally when Gerald’s shift was over and the hectics of the meal rush took over.

Ethan lost track of Mark for a while; between waiting, and cleaning tables, and clearing the messes made by some of the younger patrons (oh, the kids were fun to interact with) he had no time to watch the older man. He realized this only when Mark’s hands came down firmly on his shoulders and kept him from returning to the floor.

Ethan gave Mark a startled look, only to see Mark raising an eyebrow at him. 

“What?” Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow back.

“Take a break.” Mark gave Ethan a gentle shove towards some chairs.

“I have tables to take care of, Mark.” Ethan frowned at him. He had a pretty good idea who would be replacing him during his break, too, and that was the exact opposite of making things easier on Mark.

“Break.” Mark slung an arm over Ethan’s shoulders and walked him to the chairs. “Now.”

Ethan crossed his arms and refused to move his legs, nearly sending him face-first into the furniture. “I’ve got tables.”

“Ethan,” Mark chided, “you’ve already been here for three hours, and you’ve been moving around the entire time. Give your dogs a break.”

“No.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed. “I will sit on you.”

“That’ll just get my clothes dirty.” Ethan disengaged himself from Mark’s grip and returned to the plates Mark had forced him to abandon.

Mark’s sigh was clearly audible, even over the sounds of the rest of the kitchen. “Ethan, please.”

Ethan scooped up his plates and walked out onto the floor to deliver them. At least this way Mark wouldn’t sit on him. Threatening your employees in front of customers didn’t do great things to your reputation.

He set the dishes out, smiling as the patrons thanked him. Then, just as he was about to move on to gather his next round of orders, something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. There Mark was, walking up to Brian and speaking with him. Hopefully Mark wasn’t pulling Brian into this. Ethan quietly shook his head, turning his attention to his next table.

To his surprise, Brian walked up to that next table.

Ethan silently cursed and turned around to see Mark give him a smug look.

No. He was not going to let Mark win this one.

Ethan spun around on his heel, face set with determination as he strode over to a family who looked ready to order. One of the parents looked up, a polite but confused smile on their face as Ethan pulled out his notepad.

It turned out they’d just ordered.

After another few minutes of this contest, Ethan finally gave up. Shooting a glare in Mark’s general direction and receiving a smirk in return, he slipped back into the kitchen. There he sat, at the break table, contemplating a large plate with crumbs littering its surface. He’d stay here for five minutes. Exactly five minutes. He was even watching the small alarm clock that never rang, perched on a high shelf, the hand tick, tick, ticking the seconds away.

Ethan took this time think of some ways to have Mark finally get acquainted with a proper night’s sleep. Maybe he could find the burliest, toughest guys he knew to come to Freddy’s and just knock him out. Like Tyler, or that one guy at the poker game: Ken. Although, while Mark would finally sleep, he probably would never wake up.

Alternatively, he could slip some herbs in Mark’s food, or spike his tea. Molly probably had some in her garden, and he could ask JP to get some. Then, Ethan contemplated whether it would actually make Mark sleep, or put him in a coma. Actually—and Ethan frowned at this thought—did Mark even eat anymore?

Barricading Mark in his room could be an option. He’d have no choice but to sleep... except prolonged isolation and lack of good food posed the risk of starvation and insanity. Yeah, that one would do more harm than good.

The kitchen was warm. Warmer than the rest of the place, at least, and he could feel his eyelids begin to droop. His mind grew fuzzy, he couldn’t think up any more plans; he couldn’t focus on the tick (a second passed) tick (another second) of the clock. Nestling his head into the crook of his arm, he promised himself he’d only doze for five minutes. Another five minutes to his break… it wouldn’t hurt anyone.

When Mark returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, he glanced over at the break table to make sure Ethan was actually there and not sneaking around doing work.

Ethan’s arm was serving as a pillow for the kid, and his breathing was steady.

Had he actually fallen asleep? Mark walked over curiously, even going so far as placing his hand next to Ethan’s arm.

Ethan didn’t react.

Mark nodded, moving away, only to barely avoid running into Brian.

“Let him sleep.” Mark glanced at Ethan. “He needs it.”

Brian raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “I’ll tell the others.”

Mark smiled and returned to the floor to take over Ethan’s tables, even though his own body was already aching. 

The next time he entered the kitchen, this time with a bunch of fresh orders to hand over to the cooks, he heard the crackle of a radio, and then the voices of the Boston Bumblers.

“...There’s a lot of people gathered here for the commemoration.” Dan sounded like he was having a casual conversation. “It’s running a bit late, though; hasn’t started yet.”

“You can’t start this without Supreme Justice Carpett,” Phil chided. “He’s probably run into dreadful traffic.”

“He was supposed to be here early... .”

Mark rolled his eyes and handed over the orders before collecting the batch of plates to deliver. He didn’t know who had put the commemoration on the radio, but it was fine, at least for now. Unless Tom went and said something ridiculous again, like that quote of his in the morning article.

As his shift wore on he got a lot of cheerful conversation and smiles, but a few of the more perceptive customers (usually the regulars) kept giving him strange, worried looks.

“You should take a break, yourself,” Amy called to Mark as he walked back into the kitchen, while a slightly-out-of-sync band came on over the radio. Carpett had probably arrived, then. Only an hour late.

Mark shook his head. “Someone’s got to cover Ethan’s tables.”

Amy narrowed her eyes at him.

Mark chose to ignore the radio for the next twenty minutes or so, since Carpett was speaking. Sure, he was talking about how great the constitution was and the bravery of soldiers, but he’d said more than once already that people who didn’t work were useless.

“...He really drove his points home there.” Phil’s voice crackled over the radio again. “It almost felt like he was trying to push an agenda of some kind.”

“Everyone has an agenda, Phil,” Dan responded, maintaining that conversational tone. “It’s part of human nature.”

“Really? What’s our agenda?”

Dan gave an awkward laugh. “Spreading information, of course.” A pause. “Associate Justice Thomas Fischbach, everyone... .”

Mark turned to exit the kitchen, to continue with his work—he could ask Tom about the speech later, and he was sure to be hearing about it for weeks to come—when Amy called his name.

He turned to look at her.

“I’m not good with this dish. Could you help me out?” Amy nodded at one of the orders she’d been handed. 

Mark shifted his course and walked over to the line. “Absolutely.”

Maybe it was the kitchen being quieter than usual, or maybe Mark was hyper-aware of the radio, but he heard Tom’s voice come through loud and clear.

“...This nation began with a series of agreements, a code of conduct, on what was socially acceptable and what rules had to be followed to rightly treat each and every person.” There seemed to be something underlying Tom’s voice, just the faintest hint of stress and weariness. If Mark hadn’t known Tom personally, he probably would have missed it.

“It wasn’t perfect, at least not to begin with, but it has grown, and it has improved.” Tom paused. “As a society, we have also grown. We have created this beautiful city around us, and have contributed to the great nation we so dearly love. Our standards, our morals, our humanity have brought us to this state today... .”

“It’s going to need to be darker in color. A bit more of that golden tint, do you see it?” Mark fixed his gaze on the still-incomplete dish. “Another couple minutes should do it nicely.”

Amy nodded.

“-owever, not all of Boston stands in agreement as to how society should function.” Tom’s voice sped up slightly, but remained steady. “These individuals have stolen peace of mind and progress from us. They have refused to acknowledge the basic human standards and morals that live within each of us.

“Thief, vandal, arsonist; murderer, bootlegger; Orchid, Liguori, McLaughlin. They’re all the same. All trying to destroy what we have built through crime and fear and destruction of property and life... .”

Mark nodded at Amy. “It’s ready.” Amy placed the rest of the meal onto the plate as he scooped it over, getting ready to walk out to the main floor to serve it.

“-ey seek to destroy all that we have built, all the progress we have made. But we will stop them. We will judge these men and women in a court of law, and deliver unto them the justice they so deserve. Charles Mir was but the first. Leader or follower, all criminals and enemies of Boston and its citizens shall be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. We will  _ not _ lose ourselves, our city, our nation, to rampant crime… .” Tom’s voice was still audible as Mark pushed through the doors, even as the soft murmur of the restaurant floor itself became noticeable.

_ Bang. _

It had been the faint, but unmistakable  _ crack! _ of a rifle shot. It seemed as though, for a second, the entire restaurant froze at that sound. Then, panic reigned.

No- that had- Tom was- 

Mark couldn’t hear Tom’s voice over the radio anymore. There was only screaming.

Tom. What had happened to Tom?

He couldn’t breathe. Mark set down the serving platter on the nearest available surface, nearly dropping it in the process.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Ethan’s panic-filled voice said in his ear, hands pulling Mark away from the table, “don’t pass out on me, here.” 

Ethan herded Mark back into the kitchen, away from the customers’ prying gazes. He then shoved Mark into a seat: the one at the break table, with the radio nearby.

“Stay,” Ethan ordered, and then he was gone, leaving the doors to the restaurant floor swinging in his wake.

“Uh, alright.” Dan’s voice finally came over the radio. “Phil, please calm down.”

What had happened to Tom?

“I CAN’T CALM DOWN- THERE WAS A  _ SHOT _ DAN, DID SOMEONE GET SHOT, DID THE JUDGE GET SHOT?”

Mark’s fingers gripped the edge of the table, hard. His knuckles were white.

“The situation’s very unclear at the moment.” Dan’s voice was starting to shake. “We’ve been ordered to clear the area, under guidance from the police. We’ll update you on what happened as soon as we get the opportunity.”

“You’re really pale, Dan, are you okay? DID YOU GET SHOT?”

Dan swore, and everyone staffing the kitchen gasped. “No, that would make me the body on the ground, now, wouldn’t it.” Seconds later the voices and screams were cut short; soft music came through the radio instead.

Mark slumped in his seat, dropping his head into his hands. He was shaking. Tom. Was Tom the one who had been shot? 

Nothing new came from the radio. Merely music. Even when Mark changed stations, he couldn’t find anything about the shooting.

Tom.

Tom, no.

It felt as if time had slowed to a crawl. Mark sat there for what felt like hours but must have been only minutes; seconds dripped away, slower than molasses on brick. He swore he could hear the sticky splatters in his mind, feel the roughness against his very brain until he wanted to scratch through the layers and rip it all out with his bare hands. The unknown was driving him insane. Exhaustion and weariness clung to his bones—but it was nothing compared to the ever-growing ache in his chest.

Tom. Tom, Tom,  _ Tom.  _ Tom had been speaking when the shot went off. Tom hadn’t spoken afterwards. No one had said who’d been shot. No one had said Tom was still alive, or if he was hurt, or if there were attackers pouring into the Common, raining a hail of bullets down on everyone. Mark wouldn’t put it past Boston. There’d been weight to Tom’s words.

_ Tom.  _ God, was Tom okay? Was he alive? All Mark wanted to know was whether he’d suddenly become an only child. If he’d need to abruptly take up the mantle as the sole remaining man in the family; watch over Dee and his mother the way Tom always had. The way their father had.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Tom was supposed to live until a ripe old age. Until he didn’t need to worry about the two women anymore—maybe not even Mark, anymore. He wasn’t supposed to die. Not now. Not when he still had so much good to do. If one of the Fischbach brothers was going to be bumped off, it should be him: the disgrace, the bum, the liar; the criminal.

Mark made several attempts to get back on his feet and out the door, but every time it was his body or someone else that stopped him. He  _ needed  _ to know what had happened. He was willing to risk the long, long walk all the way to Beacon Hill to get  _ something.  _ Anything. Any kind of news about Tom.

The shock, the unwillingness to accept that Tom was probably dead—it was a crippling blow to his already weakened body. His legs didn’t want to work; they felt like jelly every time he tried to stand. His arms were heavy at his sides, or flopped uselessly across the table. Even his head hung low past his shoulders. He drooped like a wilting flower exposed to the first frost.

At times it felt like he could barely keep his eyes open. Amy kept sending him concerned looks—everyone did—but no one approached him unless he attempted to leave. They probably didn’t know what to say.

The door of The Tiny Box swung open. Mark wouldn’t have even bothered to lift his head, were it not for the familiar voice snapping in Korean drifting to his ears. His head jerked up and he was out of his seat in an instant, energy fueled by adrenaline rushing through his veins. Mark staggered out of the kitchen and towards the front of the restaurant, knowing he probably looked like a newborn foal, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t really care much about anything besides the fact his remaining family was standing there before him, whole and unharmed and alive.

Dee, looking a bit flustered but determined; their mother, ever the ball of indignant fury and protective righteousness still spouting waves of Korean only Tom would understand; and Tom.

Tom, standing there between the two women with his arms locked up in theirs and a sheepish, weary expression on his face.

Tom, who wasn’t dead, lying in a pool of his own blood on some stage or in the grass. Tom, who wasn’t riddled with bullet holes; who didn’t have a tunnel running from his forehead through to the back of his skull. Tom, with all his brains still safe in his head and no maimed limbs or severed arteries. Tom, Tom,  _ Tom- _

_ “Tom-” _

**_“Mark?!”_ **

“Mark!”

“Oh, Mark honey-”

Their voices all rang out with his name, but Tom was the one to shake off the arms around him so he could rush forward. Mark didn’t even realize he’d been falling until those strong arms caught him up around the shoulder and torso, keeping him from hitting the floor. He grunted as some of the breath rushed out of him. All the adrenaline trickled out after it. Mark was dead weight in his brother’s arms, and there was nothing he could do to help it. Still, he tried to brush it off. 

“‘M okay.”

“No, you’re not. Jesus, Mark, just… c’mon, let’s sit you down.” Tom’s voice was rough with stress and a lingering fear, but nevertheless he pushed his own emotions aside for Mark, ushering him to the nearest chair. His big hands, big like their father’s, pushed Mark down by the shoulders. His gaze alone was enough to convey a message of ‘be still,’ but he was more than happy to back the silent order up with words: “Now you just sit there. Mom, Dee, could you…?”

“I’ll go get him some water,” Dee said in her gentle but no-nonsense “nursing” tone. She hustled to the kitchen, shooing Ethan and Amy away from the door. “No, no, just stay in here for a moment- you’re going to overwhelm him, he needs space…”

“I am going to get a cool compress. Mark, don’t you dare get up from that chair.” Their mother’s tone was more threatening than Tom’s, but didn’t carry quite the same weight to it. Tom was just too much like their father in that regard.

The two of them watched their mother stalk off into the kitchen. Mark slumped down in his chair with a heavy sigh.

Tom eyed him for a moment, before pulling up a chair of his own. The exhale he made as he sat was drenched with exhaustion. Neither of them looked very good. They both had greyed skin, harsh bags under their eyes and a hunched posture that conveyed even maintaining a straight spine was proving to be too much in that moment. However, Mark wasn’t the one who had nearly been killed.

He figured he could start with that. “...you’re not dead.” Yes, spot on. Those were precisely the words Mark wanted to drop from his mouth. He winced, and Tom was quick to match it.

“I… yeah. I suppose I am. Funny, that.” Tom gave a pathetically weak chuckle, wringing his hands. “I could’ve sworn I was already dead when I heard that shot go off. Like my body was just expecting it, and when the time actually came… it was ready. But it wasn’t me who died. I wasn’t even the target- the bullet didn’t land anywhere near me. It was some other guy, fell straight off a roof…”

Mark gave Tom a bit more of his attention, stunned and curious, but oh-so-relieved. If the gunman hadn’t been aiming for Tom at all, then perhaps his paranoid fears were unfounded.

His hope didn’t last very long.

“I haven’t gotten the full report from the police yet, but… they were saying the man had a gun. That he’d been a sniper, and could very well have been aiming for me—until someone else got to him first. I don’t…” Tom laughed, a little huff of an exhale coupled with a strained grin while he combed fingers through his hair. “I don’t really know what to make of that. I mean, someone was protecting me? But… I don’t understand who... .”

Who, indeed. If Mark ever found out, he’d be sure to shake their hand. Maybe give them a lifetime supply of booze. (Well, maybe not. Amy and Kathryn would kill him.)

Tom was shaking his head; he changed the course of the conversation. “Nevermind. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I doubt they’d be willing to come forward, after basically committing murder. It doesn’t make a difference if they were preemptively protecting me or anyone else at that rally. Technically, the victim hadn’t done anything yet... .”

_ ‘Hadn’t done anything yet’,  _ bullshit. That man had condemned himself the moment he so much as  _ considered  _ harming Tom. Yet Tom was an associate justice, a man of the law, and he’d never view things that way.

Tom rubbed the bridge of his nose: another clear cut sign of exhaustion.

“But what about you, Mark?” He finally looked back to his little brother with those bloodshot brown eyes and a concerned frown that spoke volumes. “I mean, what the hell happened? You look like you were just dragged out of the Charles and then halfway across town before getting dumped on the restaurant’s doorstep. You nearly collapsed on us back there-”

_ ‘Nearly’.  _ No, not ‘nearly’. Mark had been falling and they both knew it, but Tom was trying to sugarcoat things. He was trying to convince himself Mark wasn’t as bad as he clearly looked. Was it guilt?

Or was it embarrassment? It would hardly be the first time someone was ashamed of him.

“-and if I hadn’t moved to catch you… I know you must have heard what happened over the radio, I  _ know  _ they were broadcasting, or else you wouldn’t have rushed to meet us the way you did. But that… that can’t be  _ all,  _ Mark. Have you even eaten anything today? You look thinner.”

Mark gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, adjusting his body in the chair. He hated how difficult it had become lately to look at Tom when they spoke. “I had breakfast. Well, late breakfast. Brunch, maybe.” Wait. Had he?

Tom’s brow furrowed until it creased the skin on his forehead. Mark almost wanted to snort at the obvious Fischbach trait making itself known. “And…? Don’t tell me that’s it. Mark, it doesn’t matter if your work day starts at eight a.m. or four in the afternoon, you  _ need  _ to eat. Dinner breaks are a thing.”

"I’m  _ fine.  _ Missing one or two meals isn’t going to kill me, Tom,” Mark scoffed and gave another roll of his shoulders; the action a bit more callous this time. He could feel himself starting to wind up and get huffy, but he just couldn’t help it. All anyone seemed to do lately was mother him. He already had  _ two  _ mothers, he hardly needed an extra half dozen. “I’m the last person you should be worrying about right now, anyway.  _ You  _ could’ve died today. How are mom and Dee doing? Were they at the rally with you? Is that why you all showed up here together?”

Tom released a disgruntled sigh and rubbed at his eyebrows. “Yes, yes they were at the rally, Mark; of course they were. I know the only reason you weren’t there was because someone needed to be here for the restaurant.”

Mark did his best to ignore the pang of guilt striking sharp and bitter within his abdomen.

“So, yes, they heard the shot and saw the body. Mom almost got herself arrested for assaulting an officer because she  _ insisted  _ on seeing me right away, even when we were all supposed to be evacuating. I meant to get a police escort here,”—because here felt safe—“but they both insisted they had it covered. And yes, they walked me here personally, casting vicious looks at anyone we passed along the way. I’ve never been so absolutely mortified... .” Tom made another disgruntled sound, then focused a stern, hardened gaze onto Mark.

Mark swore he felt his skin crawl with a familiar itch. He was taken back to stony, wizened eyes leering at him from across the table, from the front stoop, from a hospital bed. Their father had looked at him with a gaze like that to his very dying breath. Immediately, Mark knew his attempts at changing the subject had failed.

“But don’t try to change the subject.”

_ Damn it, Tom. _

“Have you been drinking again?” Tom blurted, something painful shifting in his eyes.

Mark gaped at him for a moment. It took him a moment for him to remind himself that Tom didn’t know about his intolerance, then he shook his head. “No, of course not. How could you-”

“Fine. What about sleep? Have you been getting enough sleep? I know you said you’ve been working two jobs, but if it’s keeping you from getting proper rest-”

“I’m sleeping plenty, Tom, I promise. Fuck. Come on, don’t you think I get enough of this lecture crap from mom? Get off my back already,” Mark snapped, not caring if he sounded a bit like a petulant child. He wasn’t exactly feeling up to being a mature adult right now.

Tom’s nose scrunched up the way it always did when he found particular distaste with something Mark did. “Language, Mark, Jesus. You’re lucky mom isn’t out here right now-”

“Oh, dry up, Tom. You and I both know she was cussing up a storm in Korean when she walked you in here.”

“She was  _ scared,  _ Mark. She thought I’d been shot-”

“ _ I  _ thought you’d been shot! You said it yourself, Tom! ‘I must’ve heard it over the radio-’ well, I  _ did.  _ And unlike them, I didn’t have an immediate notice that you were okay! I’ve been sitting here, worried out of my mind, wondering if you were dead or alive or critically injured and bleeding out somewhere alone because everyone fled the scene in a panic-” Mark drew a deep, shuddering breath. He could feel his eyes beginning to sting with the threat of tears but stubbornly forced them back.

“And I couldn’t do anything, I didn’t get any confirmation you were okay until you walked through that damn fucking door.” He pointed furiously at the plane of wood and glass as if it had personally wronged him.

Tom gawked silently at Mark for a few moments before shaking his head. “Mark, just calm down. I’m not trying to accuse you of anything here. I’m just concerned. You don’t look well-”

“Yeah, well neither do you.”

“ _ -and as your brother I’m obligated to check up on you. _ ”

“Oh, so I’m an obligation now? Well, that’s nice to know!”

“ _ Mark,  _ that’s not what I meant and you know it-”

“What did you mean then, Tom? Because that sure as hell is what it sounded like to me!”

“Mark, stop. You’re raising your voice and if mom or Dee hears-”

“Let’em hear! I don’t fucking care! I am so  _ sick  _ of everyone acting like they know what’s best for me!”

_ “Mark-” _

“Especially  _ you. _ ” Mark emphatically pointed a finger at Tom; his brown eyes were ablaze with accusation. “ _ You,  _ Mr. Perfect, Mr. Politician, Mr. Does Everything Right and always makes the family proud! Newsflash, Tom: I’m nothing like you!”

“Now Mark, just hold on a second-”

“ _ No.  _ Damn it, Tom, I am trying my best here!” Mark smacked the table and rose to his feet again, though his legs were quick to wobble beneath his weight. Tom rose with him, hands slightly outstretched and ready to catch him again. For some reason, that knowledge burned him up on the inside. It was as if he was full of flammable gas, and Tom had unknowingly lit a match. He was just so  _ angry. _

“Mark.  _ Mark.  _ Listen to me. Let’s just take five seconds and take some deep breaths here. Easy. Easy,  _ aga- _ ”

_ “Don’t you dare fucking call me that.” _

Tom flinched slightly, as if verbally slapped, but stubbornly pressed on. That trait had always run in the family, too. “Mark. You’re being unreasonable. You’re getting hysterical, and you need to calm down-”

“ _ No,  _ Tom,  **_you_ ** need to calm down!” Mark felt an abrupt wave of dizziness and he swayed on his feet. Blinking it away he steadied himself with a hand on the table.

“What do you mean-”

“You know what I mean!” Mark roared, slapping the table again and ignored the fact he nearly toppled over for the brief second or two his hand left the steadying surface. “Going out, giving these speeches, saying all these things that’re gonna get you  _ killed _ . Do you have a death wish or something?! You didn’t even have any protection at that rally, other than a few bulls, I bet! Fat lot of good they’d do against a sniper’s bullet!”

_ “Mark.” _

“No! Don’t you  _ ‘Mark’  _ me—it’s true! If someone else hadn’t randomly, by complete luck and chance, been there to watch your ass, you’d be sitting in the  _ morgue  _ right now instead of standing here, arguing with me-”

“ _ Mark,  _ that speech I gave, those things  _ needed  _ to be said. The people need to stand up against these transgressors. They need to know that we, as public servants, are prepared to stand up  _ with them.  _ If we just sit behind our desks, cowering in fear, then the gangs  _ win.  _ The criminals and thieves and bootleggers  _ win— _ and I will  _ not  _ stand by while those kinds of people  _ ruin  _ everything dad, and I, and all our friends, deceased or otherwise, fought for!”

_ “You’re going to get yourself killed.” _

“You don’t understand.” His voice was so bitter.

Mark’s eyes were set ablaze again at that. The connotations of Tom’s otherwise vague words were obvious in the tense, electric space between them. “ _ No, _ ” Mark spat, venom lacing his tone, “I guess I  _ wouldn’t  _ understand, given that I never went to war like you and dad. That’s what you’re saying, right? That I could never understand what it means to care about my country and lay down my life for it?”

Tom’s sigh was heavy and reeked of regret. “Mark, that’s not what I…”

“Bullshit!  _ We both know what you meant, Tom.  _ Don’t try playing dumb or taking it back now. Dad always saw me as lesser before he died, and now  _ you  _ see me like that too! All because I didn’t serve in that fucking war-”

“ _ Mark,  _ that’s enough. Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

“Oh, trust me Tom, I’m much more inclined to hurt you before I hurt myself-”

“That’s false bravado and you know it, Mark. You wouldn’t hurt a mosquito after it bit you. You’ve been that way since we were kids.”

“Yeah, well, things  _ change,  _ Tom.”

“You’re right. Things  _ do  _ change, Mark. And sometimes that change comes with risk. With costs. I’m willing to accept both if it means making Boston safer and better for the people living here.”

“So cutting off a few drunks is worth getting your head blown off??”

“Jesus Christ, Mark, for the last time it’s more than that-”

“Yeah, more bullshit, more like.”

“I’m not having this argument with you again-”

“Well why the hell not?! We’re already arguing, Tom! Let’s just take this to the next level!”

“Mark!” The voice of their mother snapped as she came bustling out of the kitchen, followed closely by Dee. “Why on earth are you yelling? It’s enough to wake the dead! And what are you doing out of that chair? Are you listening to me, Mark? Mark!” 

Mark felt a fresh wave of fury swell up within him, taking his blood pressure straight with it. He whirled to face the woman who had raised him with words he would regret sitting heavy and primed on his tongue, but the swift movement was the last mistake he’d make that night. Abruptly, the world tilted on its axis, and he felt his momentum carrying him backwards towards the floor again.

_ Shit. _

Vaguely—so vaguely, they were distant, echoing through a tunnel—he heard the screams of his mother and Amy, coupled with a few shouts from Tom and possibly Ethan or Dee. His vision was already darkening around the edges before he hit the floor with a heavy thud. All the air rushed from his lungs in a great, wheezing exhale. The world around him was a muffled distortion of sounds and cries and hurried footsteps—and then there was nothing.


	12. Serious Sniper Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:
> 
> Stompin’ At the Savoy- Benny Goodman Orchestra  
> The Footlifter- Henry Filmore  
> Homicide- Masafumi Takada

**_Monday, September 17, 1923_ **

_ I’ve been reading Jason’s journals, trying to follow the connections MatPat made. It doesn’t make very much sense, at least not at the moment, but I want to understand. _

_ I know I’m still technically in training, but I’m a third of the way through. Shouldn’t I be able to figure this out by now? _

_ It kind of feels like Jason didn’t write everything down. I mean, that would make sense, he got pretty sparse on his notes whenever he was drunk, but still. Knowing even a little bit more would help. _

_ Some part of me wonders if there was something else going on, too. Why would Jason choose to go to a speakeasy owned and run by Madame Foxglove? There are dozens throughout the city, what attracted him to that one? Maybe he knew someone involved? I should see if I can find out the names of everyone Jason ever worked with, and if any of them live in Boston now. _

MatPat and Gar were mulling over the day’s notes and discoveries in their office when the door opened.

MatPat glanced up, half-expecting it to be Gar leaving for the day, only to find it was Stephanie.

“You ready?” Stephanie asked, standing in front of his desk. Ah, right. It was the commemoration today. A vaguely sour look crossed his face, which he quickly replaced with a warm smile. Even if he still had work to do, this would give him some time to spend with Steph.

"Give me a few.” MatPat returned to his work. “I’ve almost got everything reviewed.”

“That makes one of us.” Gar sighed softly. “I still need to finish reading Jason’s notes—and look over the Mir file. There are going to be complaints about it, and I want to be informed.”

“Are you still going to come with us to the commemoration?” Stephanie asked.

Gar hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll come in early tomorrow to finish this up.”

MatPat closed his notebook, tucking papers in so they wouldn’t fall out, then stood and offered Stephanie his arm. “We’ll wait for you two at the main doors.” 

Gar nodded, absently scratching the corgi sitting patiently on his lap. “Dante and I will be there soon.”

As soon as MatPat was away from his office and partner, he pulled Stephanie closer, placing a hand over her smaller one on his arm. “I’m so sorry I’ve been getting home at such late hours,” MatPat murmured to her. “I keep waking you.”

“No, I’m glad you wake me.” Steph smiled encouragingly. “I’d rather know you got home safely than wake up wondering.”

There was nothing like a reminder that people in MatPat’s job were frequently targeted and murdered to make him feel guilty about not spending more time with Steph.

“Still, it’s not fair to you.” MatPat shook his head. “I should be home at a normal time, after a normal day of work.”

“I knew what I was getting into when we married.” Steph met his eyes, smiling gently. “It’s okay.”

MatPat sighed. “You’ve been so patient with me.”

Stephanie shrugged. “Well, what else am I supposed to do? Tell speakeasies to go easy on the speaking for a night?”

MatPat chuckled. “That would be impressive. You manage that, and I'll be out of a job. You can just replace me.”

Steph laughed. “You would be so bored if you weren't an investigator. What would you do all day? Find conspiracy theories on chess?”

“Chess is a very old game. I'm sure at least a few murders and assassinations have been the result of a chess game.” MatPat declared as he raised his eyebrows.

“See, you can't even stay away from murders.” Steph laughed softly, even as they came to a stop just inside the main doors to the station. “If you weren't solving them, you'd be committing them. Just for the challenge.”

MatPat gave her an offended look. “Are you implying that I, Matthew Patrick, would stoop to murder for intellectual stimulation when I'm blessed to be married to the smartest woman in all of Boston?” 

The most tentative smile slid across Steph's face, as if she wasn't sure if he was joking—or truly was being so brazen. It only took a moment for it to turn into a shy, flattered grin, though.

MatPat pulled her into a hug. “I'm so, so glad to have you.” He buried his face in her hair for a minute, appreciating the familiar scent. “I don't think I could ever tell you how much I love you.”

A small bork broke the air, instantly followed by a mutter of, “Dante, hush!”

MatPat pulled away from Steph, keeping their hands clasped together. For a moment there, he'd forgotten Gar was coming with them. Some part of him was annoyed they couldn't go alone.

“Ready?” Steph asked cheerfully. 

Dante borked, and Gar nodded, struggling to hide a wide, sheepish smile.

Steph grinned broadly, and they were on their way.

The Common was crowded already, and a lot of people were milling about to find a place to settle down. If MatPat hadn’t still been holding Steph’s hand, the two would have easily been separated more than once. Gar was set adrift more than once, but he always reappeared within a minute or two. In the most recent of those reappearances, he was carrying Dante. 

“I was worried he’d get stepped on,” Gar said by way of explanation.

Steph ran her fingers between Dante’s ears. “We wouldn’t want that.”

Dante booped her hand with his nose.

“We should get a dog.” Steph looked up at MatPat.

“I don’t think Skip would like that very much.” MatPat raised his eyebrows. “He doesn’t even like the neighbor’s cat, and they’re the same species.”

“That is true.” Steph nodded. She paused and looked around. “It’s almost five thirty. You two had better find seats.” She held out her arms for Dante, and Gar reluctantly handed him over. 

“Be good, okay, Dante boy?”

Dante whined softly, and Gar gave him a quick kiss on the forehead before backing up.

MatPat pulled Steph into a careful hug, so as not to squish the dog between them, before joining Gar. “I’ll find you in the audience.”

“I’m sure.” Steph smiled broadly. “Go on, you two. We’ll find a good seat.” She turned and was swept away by the crowd, everyone heading towards the seating.

MatPat turned to Gar, shoving his now-empty hands into his coat pockets. “You ready for this?”

“No.” Gar sighed. “Let’s get it over with.”

The pair made their way over to the separated seating. MatPat could see a few familiar faces inside the veteran-only area: Ken, deep in conversation already; Gar’s friend Patrck; and one or two others who had been in the cryptographic section alongside MatPat and Gar.

“It's a special occasion, Dan!”

MatPat glanced to his right to see the two reporters arguing over something while a crew around them set up some sort of fancy-looking equipment. Oh, were they in charge of the radio broadcast?

Dan shook his head. “I'll blind everyone.”

Phil held out a dazzling, shiny suit jacket with a grin. “Yeah, with how handsome you’ll look.”

Dan gave him a disgruntled look. “Phil, please.”

Phil held out the suit jacket with both hands. “Maybe you could even get yourself a girlfriend.” He gave Dan a playful elbow nudge.

“Phil.” Dan turned to fully look at Phil, then met his earnest expression. “Oh, fine, but if anyone complains, I'm blaming you.”

“That's fine.” Phil beamed as Dan pulled it on.

“Let's just get to work, alright?”

“Absolutely.”

MatPat shook his head and followed Gar to some available seats.

“I'm hoping they changed their mind about making us stand later,” Gar admitted. “Being singled out in seating is bad enough.”

“It'll be over before you know it,” MatPat assured.

“As long as I don't have to say anything, I'm okay.” 

“Come on, Gar, it's not that bad.” Officer Static leaned back in his chair. “Nobody will be able to pick us out of the crowd.”

“We're still the youngest ones here.” Gar made a face.

“Not by much.” Patrck shrugged. “There are a bunch of others here that got drafted later in the war.”

Gar sighed as he dropped into his seat.

MatPat sat next to him, already scanning the general public seating to find Steph.

There. Next to a man in a sparkling blue suit and a small, dark haired woman.

“Is that Kjellberg?” Gar asked.

MatPat chuckled. “He's bad at being inconspicuous.”

“He isn’t if you compare him to Mr. Howell over there.” Patrck laughed. “Between the two, we'll all be blind by the end of this.”

“Oh dear,” Gar said in a tone that suggested he somehow hadn’t seen how Dan looked, “that’s sparkly.”

“Yup.” Patrck leaned forward. “How’s life going?”

With Gar now wrapped up in a conversation, MatPat returned his attention to looking around again. Most of the seats in the audience were taken but, thanks to Felix’s suit, Steph was not at all hard to find.

Nobody else seemed to be looking, so MatPat blew her a kiss.

Steph pretended to catch it and hold it to her heart.

MatPat grinned at her. What would he do without her?

Steph proceeded to be MatPat’s sole form of entertainment as time stretched on, at least until Dan and Phil started broadcasting. At that point, Steph’s facial expressions reacting to Dan and Phil became MatPat’s sole form of entertainment.

He could only imagine what Jason would have had to say about it.

The thought brought MatPat up short, and he leaned back in his chair, taking a good look around. There were a lot of unfamiliar faces around him; he couldn’t know every other veteran in the city, after all.

Jason would have been here. He should be here.

But he wasn’t. He would never come to one of these events again.

Because Madame Foxglove had killed him.

MatPat did his best to swallow the lump in his throat, to shake off the prickly blanket of anger that had enveloped him. 

He couldn't afford to think like that. He didn't yet have any actual proof that Madame Foxglove had been the one to kill Jason. She probably was Jason's killer, but if there was even the slightest bit of doubt when she was put behind bars, MatPat would never be able to live with himself.

Carpett arrived late (no explanation was provided), and everything started. Tom stood up and moved to the small podium, and signaled to the crowd.

“Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance,” Tom called out, then cleared his throat.

"I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

After a moment of silence there was a rustle of clothing as everyone sat back down. Tom returned to his own seat, and Carpett took his place.

When Carpett started talking, MatPat was still too distracted to really listen. Besides, Gar and Patrck were whispering to each other over the speech, so it would have been hard to listen anyway.

People quieted down more when Tom got up to speak, even though there were still a couple of whispers going on as he began.

“On such a day as this, where we celebrate freedom, it is only appropriate to honor those who have fought to maintain that freedom.” Tom took a breath. “With us are the fine veterans of Boston, who sacrificed their time and their health for us—some, their lives. Not all of Boston’s heroes are here today, for many reasons, but every one of them still deserves our respect.”

Tom gestured to the area where the veterans were sitting and the audience applauded. A few of the veterans waved humbly. Such a response for doing such a thankless job was rewarding to MatPat. It was good, it just wasn’t the same without his old best friend and partner. How  _ would _ Jason feel at this moment? Would he feel proud, humbled, elated? Would he have wanted to accept their appreciation?

_ That was in the past. What I do know is this: Jason would want me to move forward, and continue to do good. _ MatPat ended his reminiscing on that note. He scoped the area to find Steph holding up Dante’s arm to make him look like he was waving. MatPat could tell that she was proud of him. Maybe Gar was right about taking a break to relax with her. Maybe that’s what MatPat needed.

“I’m glad that’s over,” Gar muttered as the last of the applause faded.

Tom began into his speech. MatPat only half-listened.

“...urderer, bootlegger; Orchid, Liguori, McLaughlin. They’re all the same. All trying... fear and destruction of property and life... seek to destroy all that we have built... progress we have made. But... in a court of law, and deliver... justice they... . Charles Mir was but the first. Leader or follower, all criminals and enemies of Boston... prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. We will  _ not _ lose ourselves, our city, our nation, to rampant crime-”

_ Bang. _

For a second, all MatPat could hear was the soft drawing in of breath from the men around him. The world paused, just for that moment—then everything erupted. There were screams; a child was crying somewhere. The cops were shouting at each other. He stood, eyes darting through the panicked crowd, trampling their way to perceived safety. The shot hadn’t sounded that close. Had anyone been hit?

He glanced to the stage. Tom was being pulled away from the stand, but he wasn’t collapsing. Nobody on the stand was obviously bleeding. 

Nearby, Dan was sort of slumping into Phil, even as Phil moved them out of the broadcasting area. For a second, MatPat was worried Dan had been shot, but then the young man shook his head and pulled away from Phil.

Had the shot gone into the audience, then? People were moving, and moving fast, so it was hard to tell.

Was Steph okay?

Then, across the stretch of grass and the street, his gaze was caught by a falling object. Only when it hit the ground and people around it began to scream did he realize it had been a human body, falling from the rooftops.

“I'll get our ladies to safety,” Ken roared over the other shouts as he shouldered his way to Felix and Marzia—and Stephanie, who was clinging to Dante. MatPat turned his attention to Tom. He knew Ken would keep Steph safe.

The judge was being escorted by police off the stage, and a very determined woman was trying to get to him. They looked related. It was probably Mrs. Fischbach.

“Detectives,” the familiar voice of the police chief said, “are you armed?”

“Yes, sir.” Gar's voice shook as he answered.

“Are you willing to check the perimeter?”

“Yes, sir.”

The building that the body had fallen from was swarming with cops already. They wouldn’t be needed there. MatPat looked at his partner, then across another street bordering the park to an abandoned building. One would have an excellent vantage point from that rooftop. “Let's start there.”

The two of them took off, weaving through the crowd as everyone was evacuated from the area. As soon as they got enough space, they broke into a sprint, often taking a few detours just to keep behind cover. Finally, they reached the entrance to the building.

It took him a minute, but MatPat was finally able to pick the padlock chaining the doors shut.

“You ready?” MatPat looked over to Gar. They'd practiced for situations like this before, but it was Gar's first time actually doing it.

“No,” Gar said, shaking his head, “not really.”

“I'll take the lead, then.” With that, MatPat ducked inside the building, pulling out his nightstick.

The first three floors were completely quiet. Streaks in the dust on the floor suggested the sniper had already made their way out of the building in a hurry—but they could’ve left evidence. Or a friend.

That thought in mind, MatPat proceeded with caution, examining each area and each level of the building for signs of a gunman left behind.

The fifth floor finally had some signs. The dust had been disturbed like it had on the first floor, but there was also a large patch, right by a broken window, that was a good deal more swept about. MatPat could clearly pick out where the shooter’s knees had been placed; where the equipment had been laid out. 

But that was it.

“So our sniper was here,” Gar said, looking around the space, “but we didn't see anyone leaving. They must have been moving fast to get out unnoticed.”

MatPat nodded, crouching next to the broken window and peering through it. “Well, it's smart to get out fast when you’ve murdered someone.” 

“Hmm.” Gar began to move about, inspecting the area.

MatPat frowned. You could see almost the entirety of the Commons from this window, and just about every building surrounding the area. In return, whoever was here would have risked being seen by just about anyone.

Why would they have taken that risk? Were they unsure where their target would be?

“There were two people here,” Gar spoke up suddenly, “and a small dog of some kind. Could have been a puppy.”

MatPat stood and turned to Gar, who was crouched next to some of the dust scuffs on the floor.

“A puppy?”

Gar nodded. “The paw prints are small, and kind of wobbly. It was either a puppy or an injured dog, but I'm not seeing any indications of a severely uneven gait or blood.”

“Why would our mystery sniper bring a puppy with them?”

Gar shrugged. “Maybe the second person brought the puppy. What did you see from that window over there?”

“A remarkably clear line of sight to the podium, despite all the trees. And a clear shot to the rooftops all around. Whoever the sniper is chose this spot for a reason, even though it’s pretty visible.” MatPat made a thoughtful face. “Which makes me wonder why.”

“We'll need to talk to someone to find that out.” Gar stood. “I think there were a few guys with us who served as snipers; they'll probably have a better idea than we ever could.”

MatPat stuck his hands in his pockets. “What do you say we go check out the body? Maybe that will tell us something.”

“Sure thing. Oh, when we get the chance, I need to let my dad know I'll be home late.”

“Of course.”

\-----

Bodies were, by far, one of MatPat's least favorite parts of his job. He'd seen more than his fair share over the years, but he never quite got used to it.

Though, to be fair, most bodies didn't have a bullet hole in the brain. Or a burst eye in a gaping socket, with the bullet’s exit point in the back of the skull, displaying just a touch too much brain matter for his liking.

“The sniper was definitely aiming for this guy.” MatPat looked up as Gar walked back from the broken rifle pieces a good ten feet away. 

“It looks like he was planning on doing some shooting of his own.” Gar frowned. “There's a lot of pieces, but that rifle was almost certainly the kind for an assassination.”

“Two snipers, and one of them is dead.” MatPat put his hands together in a thoughtful triangle. “Was this some sort of revenge? Was it a competition?”

“Was one of them trying to protect Tom?” Gar glanced at the body and couldn’t hide a grimace. 

MatPat raised his eyebrows. “It’s possible, I suppose, but why?”

Gar shrugged. “A debt of some kind?”

MatPat tapped his nose with the tip of his hand triangle, thinking. “I’ll talk to Tom in the morning, then.” He also needed to talk to Tom about the possibility of being on the trail of another speakeasy, so he would do that tomorrow too.

“Are you two finished looking around?”

MatPat looked at the coroner and nodded. “We are. We’ll get out of your way now.”

“Hopefully they’ll be able to figure out who he was,” Gar added as they walked away from the body. “This will be hard to figure out without a name.”

MatPat nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere. He had one more stop before going home for the evening.


	13. Reminiscing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's Tunes:
> 
> Infant Eyes- Wayne Shorter  
> Isfahan- Duke Ellington

_October 15, 1922; Jason's Journal_

_Ran into an old friend today. It’s been over a year since I last saw him. It was good to know he’s still alive._

_He’s the source of some of my fonder memories from the war. I remember, there was one point where the others in our unit started talking about their girls back home. Neither of us had one at that point, but since everyone else was on the topic, we talked about it too._

_Eventually, we settled on discussing the proper way to court a lady when you met one that caught your fancy. Somehow, we ended up tying a flower to a stick and running through different scenarios, acting them out._

_He always used so many puns. They weren’t bad (don’t tell Matthew, he’ll get jealous), and some were actually pretty good._

_It looks like that practice on Miss Stick worked. He was on a walk with a lovely dame when I ran into him._

_We made plans to meet again soon. I’m rather looking forward to it._

Jason's grave was quiet; not too surprising this late at night.

MatPat sighed, keeping his hands in his pockets to help stave off the cool September air.

“You would like Gar.” MatPat smiled faintly. “In another life, I think the two of you would have been good friends.” He chuckled quietly to himself. “Though that might be because you both actually seem to like me. That takes a special kind of person.”

Jason, being dead and buried, did not answer.

“He’s a fast learner.” MatPat paused, and closed his eyes. “Sometimes I think he feels like he has to fill your shoes completely. I hope I can help him get past that stage. He’s got a lot of potential. Boston is lucky to have him.”

MatPat was lucky to have him.

“I don't think I ever told you,” MatPat said after a few minutes of silence, “but after you died, everyone at the station kind of avoided me for a while. I almost quit, I was so... lonely.”

Another pause, this time for MatPat to organize his thoughts.

“That's when I got a letter from Gar, letting me know he was moving to Boston. From the way his letter was worded, it felt like he was almost running from something, or trying to leave something behind. I don't know what; I haven't asked and he hasn't offered to tell me.

“It had been so long since we'd seen each other—since everyone in our unit was sent home—and I was just... so excited to get to see an old friend. And then he got here, and he became a detective. I guess the chief was tired of hearing me talk about him, since he assigned me to keep an eye on him for his rookie year.” MatPat smiled at the memory. “And I'm already considering asking him if he wants to remain as my partner once that's over. I don't know if he'll agree, he might be sick of me by then, but... I hope he does.”

The soft sound of someone walking behind him made MatPat lift his head—not out of alarm, but rather mere curiosity to see who else was here this late at night.

It was Wade, standing only a few feet away, face dimly lit by the closest street light. He was holding something.

Instantly, MatPat took a step away, alarm spiking through him. Why was the mobster here? Here, at Jason’s grave, specifically? Had Wade come to try and kill MatPat after how the poker game had gone?

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Wade took a step backwards, holding up one hand in a placating gesture. “I didn’t know anyone else would be here after dark.” He still hadn’t dropped whatever he was holding, though.

“Neither did I,” MatPat said slowly.

Wade lifted what he was holding. “Sorry, just let me put this down and I’ll be out of your way.”

MatPat glanced at what Wade was holding, only to pause. It was a trimmed branch with a flower wrapped around the top.

“Uh, sure, no. Go ahead.” MatPat backed up even more, giving Wade plenty of space.

Wade stepped forward and put the stick-flower on Jason’s grave. It almost seemed like he murmured, “Thanks for the advice,” but MatPat couldn’t tell for sure.

And then Wade turned and walked off into the darkness.

MatPat stood there for a long minute, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. Wade had known Jason? How long had Wade been coming to visit his grave late at night?

Did Wade know his lover had killed Jason?

\-----

For any old fella it normally took quite a bit of waiting to get in to talk to Tom, especially considering how busy he usually was. But MatPat had never had that problem. He wasn’t sure if it was a benefit of having worked with Tom in the war, or because they frequently worked together now—or if it was something entirely different.

Whatever the case was, it made life easier.

MatPat walked up to Tom’s office—hoping that since it was still extremely early in the work day, Tom would have some time to talk—only to hear a conversation going already.

“You’ve barely been listening to a word I’ve said.” The voice of Supreme Justice Carpett made MatPat take a half step away from the door.

“I’m sorry, sir. My brother collapsed yesterday and I’m concerned about his health.”

Carpett _hmm_ -ed. “Your brother. He works two jobs, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good for him. Working yourself to exhaustion is a sign of a true man.”

MatPat glanced in the room to see one of Tom’s hands ball into a fist as he casually moved his hands behind his back. “I still worry.”

“He’ll be fine.” Carpett gave a short laugh. “It won’t take him long at all to bounce back from something like that.”

MatPat had had enough of this. Supreme Justice or not, it had to end.

So he walked in the room. “Justice Fischbach, I need a word with you.”

Tom instantly looked over, a hint of relief on his face. “Of course.”

“I’ll be on my way, but I expect progress by the end of the day.” Carpett walked out the door. MatPat had to step aside so the man wouldn’t walk into him.

MatPat quickly closed the door to Tom’s office and leaned against it. “You look awful.”

Tom dropped into his chair and shoved his face into his hands. “I barely got any sleep last night.” He sighed, and lowered his hands. “I was too worried about Mark.”

“Will he be okay? I mean, no matter what Carpett says, any sort of collapsing isn’t good.” MatPat walked to the seat opposite Tom’s, on the other side of the desk.

“I hope so.” Tom shook his head. “He has to go back to work tomorrow, but he’s staying home today.” He paused and leaned forward. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

“Oh, Gar and I had a couple of theories about who our mystery sniper could have been—nothing specific, but starting points—and I wanted to tell you we might have a new lead on another speakeasy, but all that can wait for just a little bit.” MatPat leaned forward himself. “Are you okay?”

Tom looked like he was about to object, then sighed. “Mostly, I’m worried about Mark. He keeps saying he’s fine, but it’s obvious he isn’t. Something’s bothering him; I have no idea what it is. He won’t tell me anything.” Tom paused, guilt crossing his face. “We were arguing when he collapsed, and I can’t help but wonder if it contributed.”

“That’s rough.”

“Last time he collapsed like that was when we were getting checked out for the draft, and then that tumor showed up.” Tom groaned. “I’m worried that’s what’s happening again, and that it won’t be just a tumour this time and it’ll be cancer.” Tom froze for a long, long second. “I don’t want to lose Mark.”

“I didn't know he collapsed during the draft.” MatPat leaned back in his seat, frowning.

“We took a shot just before- to calm our nerves, you know? Then we were in there, and I’d just been cleared, and he was about to go in, and…” Tom swallowed against a lump in his throat. Still, after all these years- “He collapsed. And after, when he was in the hospital—because it was that bad—the doctors found a tumour.” He stared down at his hands; they were twisted together, the knuckles white. “But,” he continued in a rough, quiet voice, “I’ve always felt like it was more than the tumour.  What if- What if it’s been going on for all this time? His… refusal to take care of himself? God.” He buried his face in his hands. “Have I been missing it this whole time? What kind of a brother am I?”

MatPat could only look at Tom. He didn’t know what to say; he had no idea how to reply to that question.

“But his first collapse,” Tom mumbled, “was ultimately why he got the exam that found the tumor.” A sigh. “I don't know what caused it—if it was stress, or if he inherited it, or something completely different.”

“Stress?”

“Yeah.” Tom’s grin held a measure of sadness. “Dad had high hopes for the both of us doing well in the army, and getting good positions. High ranks. It was a lot of pressure. Maybe it was too much.”

How could Matpat respond to this? He had no idea how to help, not without the whole story, so he inquired further: “He’s the manager of your family’s restaurant, right?”

Tom nodded. “Mark became the manager of our restaurant shortly before Dad passed away. The Tiny Box was always Mom’s place, and he’s always been closer to our mom. He chose her after Dad ran away with Dee, despite how similar Mark and Dad were. The two were the spitting image of each other.” A reminiscing look passed over his features as he continued in a mumble, “It’s funny. Even though Mark is closer to Mom, I’ve always been more fluent in Korean than him—he would always repeat after Dad’s German perfectly.”

He shook his head and continued with that same sad smile. “Mark was so nervous in those weeks coming up to our draft. But… he was also excited. Joining the war was going to be a chance for him to rekindle the relationship between him and Dad. They would finally have something they could talk about. It took me a long time to figure all this out, since Mark would never admit to any of this, but now… it’s so clear.”

His smile flickered a bit. “Before Mark’s first collapse they still loved each other, of course. But even then we all knew there was a gap between them. Mark was convinced that going out to fight would heal that divide, but he was hospitalized instead. And I’m not sure if it was just in Mark’s head or if Dad really did feel this, but…” Tom shrugged limply. “I don’t know. Mark always acted like he didn’t deserve a thing after that day, especially around Dad. Now that I think about it… maybe that was where it all started.”

His eyes were distant, and his bitter grin had faded. “When I returned, there was only a month left for our dad. Cancer had drained his life away, and we couldn’t do anything. Before he died, he praised me for everything I’d done, and left me to take care of the family. Mark, though…” Distress replaced the far-away look in Tom’s eyes.

“There was always a void whenever Dad and Mark were in the same room. Dad would always seem like he was about to address him, but something would always stop him before he could utter a word. Mark wouldn’t talk to him at all, and I realize now that he was so caught up in his own self-loathing that he wouldn’t dare open up. He’s just that dead-set on keeping everything in.”

Tom suddenly laughed: a sharp, bitter sound. “I must’ve been a parallel to my dad after he died. It’s almost funny, how that happened.”

MatPat could only stare at Tom in the silence that followed.

“I don’t know how it came to this, but eventually even we drifted apart.” A deep misery, years old, darkened Tom’s eyes— and MatPat could make out an equally strong sense of longing behind it. “After Dad died, we clung onto each for support. I would always have to make him tell me what was bothering him, but he would do the same for me.

“He learned to never bring up the war, though; I guess I figured out that talking about Dad was just as painful, but in a different way. But we always managed to find solace in each other—even as we talked less.

”And when I rose up through the ranks of the bureaucracy, when the stress got worse, Mark was still there. He was always so supportive and encouraging of me. He… he...” Tom let out a little chuckle as he whispered his next words. “He told me that he was so proud of what I was doing. Dad had said the same thing before he passed.” As quickly as it had appeared, however, the fondness vanished from Tom’s face. “That was before prohibition rolled around.”

He sighed and buried his face in his hands. “Now we can hardly speak to each other. Either we can’t find anything to say, or a conversation always has to end with one of us raising our voice. Whenever it seemed like we could have a decent talk, there was always something that set one of us off.” Tom struggled to breathe as he fought against the tears that pricked at his eyes.

MatPat sat there. He’d never had any experience in dealing with siblings before, being an only child and all. Tom had rambled on about his brother before, but it had always been good things. This was the first time Tom had ever expressed his worries about Mark; MatPat had to say something. He had to offer some sort of advice.

“Sir?” Tom didn’t look up. “Tom?”

Tom looked up. He looked exhausted. “Yes?”

“Erm…” MatPat was at a loss for words as he wracked his brain on where to begin; he’d never been very good at this. He was more adept at handling theories, logic, facts and evidence—but he had to try.

“What is it about your brother that you’re worried about?”

Tom stared at him, and MatPat shifted in his seat.

“Weren’t you…? Nevermind.” Tom took a breath. “I’m worried about his health. He’s overworking himself with his two jobs, and I’m afraid that this won’t be his last collapse. I-” Tom glanced to the side for a bit before he faced MatPat again. “I feel like there’s something more to his acting out than his feelings around his rejection into the army.”

MatPat thought for a moment. “You said that you two got into an argument before he collapsed, is that right?”

Tom nodded, a hint of confusion surfacing in his eyes.

“Do you know how it started?”

Tom gave a grimace of remorse as he recalled the shouting match he and Mark had had last night.

“We… we were talking about how Death cut down the wrong target that evening,” he chuckled dryly at that, “and how I nearly got myself killed. When I tried to steer the course of the conversation towards Mark’s own poor health—despite his efforts to deflect the topic—he became irritated.”

‘Irritated’ was putting it lightly. Tom hadn’t seen Mark so defensive, and so nearly off the track, in years.

MatPat ignored Tom’s attempt at dry humour, and focused instead on the implications of his words. “You two talked about the shooting?”

Tom stared at MatPat for a moment. He gave a slow nod.

“Yes…?”

“Maybe he was just worried about you,” MatPat suggested, shrugging.

Tom snorted and waved off MatPat’s words. “Sure, he mentioned several times how I nearly died by gunshot during the course of the argument, but I told him it didn’t matter. I wasn’t the one on the brink of collapse.”

“Now hold on,” MatPat interjected. “He was extremely tired, isn’t that right? And there he was, sitting in that kitchen—because both you and I know Amy would have forced him to take a break—and listening to the radio because he cares about you. He would have heard the shot, then nothing, because the police shut the broadcast down.”

Matpat looked at Tom right in the eyes. “I think he was deathly afraid for your safety, and being exhausted would not soothe the shock of hearing that shot over the radio.”

Tom gave an exasperated sigh and rubbed his hands on his temple. “Yes, but-”

“And,” MatPat interrupted whatever protest Tom was about to give with a pointed look, “you should’ve heard yourself when you were up there on the podium. You were practically taunting lawbreakers across the nation with your speech.”

Something flared in Tom’s expression, and MatPat’s face softened in sympathy. “I’m not saying that your speech was terrible—it was brilliant, actually. You’re just doing what your job requires from you, sir; and I respect that. But your brother, from the looks of it, was scared literally almost to death.”

He leaned closer across the desk towards Tom, his face pensive. “You need to be more conscious of your actions, sir. I don’t know how I can bear to give your brother the news that you were assassinated for your reckless words and actions. We both know he would be absolutely crushed.”

After a long moment of silence Tom drew in a breath. “But here’s the thing.

“My brother hardly ever takes care of himself anymore. He’s always either too busy working, or looking after everyone else.” He had a faint, but affectionate smile. It faded, however, as he shook his head. “He never stops to reflect on his own well-being. It may have something to do with the draft, but no matter the root he’s just too altruistic. I’m afraid that it’ll be the death of him.”

MatPat sighed. “I’ll stop by his place to give him a warning myself. Though I’m certain that everyone’s going to be on his case after his collapse, anyways.” The firm look returned to MatPat’s face. “Just remember to take care of yourself, too.”

There was a brief pause. “Alright.”

“Good.” MatPat relaxed back in his chair, satisfied. There was a moment of silence where the two men avoided eye contact until MatPat bolted straight back up again, remembering what he originally came to Tom for.

“Oh, right. Sir, I wanted to talk to you about the investigation of the shooting incident yesterday—and some potential leads on speakeasies.”

Tom looked back to him. “Right. What have you found?”

“The person who was shot was also a sniper.” MatPat put his hands back into the pointy triangle of thoughtfulness. “I don’t have an identity yet, but it’s clear the man was intentionally killed. This other person was never aiming at you.”

Tom blinked. “What? Why?”

“We were thinking someone knew there was a big chance you’d be assassinated, and either this mystery sniper was paid by an unknown party to protect you, or they had personal motivation.. Obviously, our mystery sniper isn’t going to reveal their identity, but we were hoping you had some idea as to who could have felt that kind of obligation towards you?”

Tom tilted his head, clearly thinking, before slowly shaking his head. “Not that I can think of, no. But why would someone take the illegal route of just murdering the other guy instead of alerting the police?”

“Tom, the police don’t actually have the time, manpower, or ability to search every building for a hidden sniper, or keep a sniper out of those buildings—and they certainly can’t stop a bullet from going through your head.” MatPat sighed. “There’s not a lot you can do about snipers, honestly.”

Tom nodded slowly. “I assume you’ll have some more ideas after you get the identity of the deceased?”

MatPat nodded himself. “Probably. I can’t promise you anything, but it’s likely.”

“Alright. And then you mentioned something about a speakeasy?”

“It’s possible Gar and I are on the trail of a big one.” MatPat dipped his head. “We don’t have confirmation of anything just yet, but there are certainly enough hints to suggest something worth being investigated.” It was probably smart to avoid mentioning that all of these hints came from rumours, and the notes of a man poisoned at a speakeasy.

“That’s good.” Tom smiled: a genuine one this time. “That’s fast work.”

“We haven’t even really done much of the work yet.” MatPat chuckled. “Now we have to hunt down all of the hints, and find their sources, and compare everything. Come to our office in a few weeks and it will be an absolute mess.”

“Will I drown in papers?”

“No, notes don’t go on the floor until late in the investigation.” MatPat laughed softly. “The walls end up pretty covered, though.”

“I didn’t think you were allowed to wallpaper your office.”

“Not permanently, no.” MatPat smiled, then stood. “Anyway, that’s all. I’ll let you get back to work.”

MatPat turned to leave, then paused and glanced back at Tom. “Take care of yourself. And check on your brother too, but go easy on him, okay? He cares as much about you, as you care about him.”


	14. Sniper Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:  
> [The Five Floor Goodbye - Tom Francis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AASeTbHFvSQ)  
> Prelude to a Kiss - Teddy Wilson  
> Feathers - Eric Dolphy  
> Ruby, My Dear - Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane

_ August 27, 1915  _

_ Phil, _

_ My skin still feels like it’s coated in Tyler’s blood, even though I’ve scrubbed at it. every time I look at my hands, it’s like I can still feel the weight of his small body, still feel him letting out his last breaths. things weren’t supposed to explode so soon, we had it under control, but then it _

_                                                                                                                                                                          wasn’t.  _

_ It happened so fast. everything was fine, at least as fine as it can be when you’re on a team dedicated to defusing bombs. _

_ it went off, phil. i’ve never seen one go off like that before. there wasn’t any warning. i’m fine... [The rest of the paragraph is illegible.] _

_ tyler’s  _ dead _ , phil, and that’s what kept me safe. if he hadn’t been there, i would have been hit by the explosion. i found his glasses after....what is he supposed to do with them now? _

_ [The paragraph is illegible due to shaky handwriting and tear stains.] _

_ we almost didn’t make it back, the rest of us. the blast exploded our cover, and the others started shooting at us.  _

_ someone started picking them off. one of the snipers, i think he’s called ‘boss-eye’, but i haven’t had the chance to find out for sure. nobody is really telling me anything right now. _

_ [The paragraph has been scratched out. Parts are legible through the scratches: hands, noise, busy, dead and dying.] _

_ i’ll be okay, i promise. i’ll come home from this war, and you can show me all the things that have changed while i’ve been gone. deal? _

_ Dan _

 

Jack had managed only a few hours of sleep before his day started. Today was the commemoration. He had a few things to do. 

Good thing he’d cleaned his rifle during his night watch, because he needed it today. He only gave it the quick and customary once-over before covering it with his make-shift case, then casually slung his rifle over his shoulder and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Rhett called.

“Out,” Jack replied over his shoulder. After the “secret” conversation Rhett had had with Link last night, Jack wasn’t really in the mood to be helpful.

“With your rifle?”

“Yep.”

“What are you planning on doing?”

“I’m thinking about starting a garden with it, actually.” With that, Jack ducked out the door and darted down the alley. He would have to be careful to avoid the gaze of people—it was awfully hard to explain why you were carting a bean-shooter on your back.

Eventually, he reached his location: the top floor of an abandoned building across from Boston Common. It was supposed to be torn down within the next year—nobody would find him here.

He’d picked out the location a few days before, as soon as he found out Mark’s brother would be speaking at the Commemoration. That was when he’d knocked out one of the windows. The last thing he wanted was to attract extra attention to himself by dropping glass on someone’s head, just hours before possibly shooting someone’s brains out.

Jack quietly set up and settled in. He would be here for most of the day.

He spent the morning watching for other snipers settling in. Well, that and just watching people. If the stakes were lower, he might have even tried watching the people in the street below him.

Lunch brought a large flock of people, and Jack did his best to make sure everyone who went into a building came out. Of course, there were people going in for afternoon shifts at work, but someone came out in their stead.

It was difficult with so many people.

A few hours later a crowd had filled up the seating around the monument, and the occasional breeze lifted snippets of far-off conversations up to his vantage point. Then the sound of soft footsteps creeping up behind him caught Jack's attention, and he carefully glanced behind to see not two legs, but four.

Four tiny, furry golden legs under a tiny, scraggly golden fluff ball with dark little eyes, ears, and a button-black nose.

The puppy barked at him.

It looked weak and underfed. Maybe it was from the busted dog ring that had been broken up last week.

“Don't you dare,” Jack hissed at it. “You'll attract attention.” 

The puppy yapped again and took a wobbly step towards Jack.

“No.”

_ Bark. _

“Shut it.”

_ Bark. _

Jack sighed. “That's it. I'll be arrested all because of this little fluff ball.”

_ Bark. _

Jack leaned and scooped up the puppy. If he was going to get arrested, he might as well pet the baby dog.

No bark.

In fact, the puppy gave Jack's hand a tiny lick.

He gave a little chuckle. “Alright, now git.” He gently shooed the puppy from his spot so he could go back to watching the buildings. The crowd seemed calmer than before; that must mean someone was getting ready to speak.

For a moment Jack allowed himself to dip the scope down to the podium. He watched as Tom stepped up, and motioned for everyone to rise. Faintly, wisps of words from the Pledge of Allegiance reached Jack’s ears, sent on the brisk breeze.

Forget that. Jack would always be loyal to Ireland.

Jack focused his gaze on the buildings surrounding the Commons.

There. Almost directly across from him, almost 500 meters away, one of the buildings on Beacon Street. Someone was on the roof. They’d shifted positions. If they hadn’t moved, Jack wouldn’t have seen them.

Jack steadied his breathing, became aware of his heartbeat. He was calm. 

Okay. He needed to watch the other person. Make sure they were a would-be assassin, and not just someone climbing the roof to get a better vantage point. (It would be a strange vantage point for someone who  _ wasn’t _ an assassin, but people did weird things sometimes.)

_ Yap. _

Puppy, no. Jack needed to be able to focus.

_ Yap! _

He didn’t turn his head, but he used his peripheral vision to glance at the puppy, ready to write off the barking as a need for attention. But the pup was facing across the room.

Was someone else here?

Jack paused, and returned his gaze to his target. He would listen for an approach. If someone had come here to kill him (he had enough enemies for that to be a realistic option), he didn’t want to tip his hand.

But no one did approach, and after a few minutes, the puppy came padding back and stared at him and his rifle, titling her head curiously.

Jack paused and picked her up, tucking her head in his elbow and doing his best to cover her ears. This was going to be loud, and he didn’t want to traumatize the puppy and have her permanently afraid of guns. Not when he was going to keep her.

Because, of course, she’d grown on him.

Jack steadied his breathing again, getting ready to shoot. If the fellow on the roof of the other building was going to try to assassinate anyone now, Jack would be ready.

A rifle’s barrel slid into view. They were taking aim- there was a head.

His heart beat once. He exhaled. Jack took the shot.

The body slumped, the gun slipped out of the person’s hands, and the newly-made corpse toppled off the edge.

Jack slung his rifle over his back, grabbed the discarded bullet shell and his case, stood, and cradled the puppy as he ran.

Time to dodge the bulls.

\-----

It was long past sunset by the time Jack decided it was safe to return to the warehouse. At least, safe from the bulls. He still had no idea who the puppy had been barking at earlier, but he hadn’t spotted anyone following him.

He gave the puppy a soft scratch between the ears, getting only a twitch in response. She’d fallen asleep almost an hour earlier, and Jack hadn’t the heart to wake her.

“Seán!” Link scrambled to his feet, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re okay!”

Jack held out the puppy. “Hold.”

Link complied.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Jack pulled off his rifle and allowed himself to stretch for the first time in hours. Ow.

“We heard a sniper with a rifle was shot at the Commemoration earlier.” Rhett’s voice came from near the door, and Jack glanced over his shoulder to see Rhett leaning against the wall. “Nobody could get close enough to see who.”

“I have no idea who it was.” Jack shook his head.

Rhett raised his eyebrows, gaze settling on Link. “Is that a dog?”

Jack took the puppy back. “No, it’s a lamp.” With that, he headed for his room, toting the puppy with him.

He would have to leave her to go play his gig at Freddy’s, but that was alright. She needed the sleep.

“Seán.” Link said as Jack settled the puppy on his bed. “Freddy’s is closed for the night.”

Jack looked up. “What?” That place had never been closed on a weeknight before.

Link shrugged from the doorframe. “I don’t know why. All I know is one of the waiters from there sent out word for nobody to come. A few of the spuds overheard.”

“They getting heat from the bulls?”

Link shook his head. “Not obviously. It might just be a precaution.”

“Might be.” Though if it was a precaution, Mark probably would have warned people about Freddy’s being closed at least a night before, not dropped a surprise like this.

Hopefully everything was alright.

\-----

The morning of the 19th, Jack was woken by a bunch of giggles and delighted squeals from outside the room.

Jack sat up, instantly aware that the puppy wasn’t at the side of his bed.

“She’s even smaller than Sam!” Betty’s laugh drifted in.

As he pulled on his trousers, Jack raised his eyebrows and exited his room, only to find the puppy excitedly bouncing between Betty and Billy and Sam. All three spuds had undisguised delight on their faces—especially Billy.

Jack buttoned up his shirt as he watched the antics unfolding in front of him. The puppy gave a tiny bark, then started licking Sam’s face. They started giggling uncontrollably, even as they fell backwards into Jack’s leg.

Sam jerked into a sitting position, pulling the puppy into their arms, and stopped laughing.

“Oh, it’s alright.” Jack crouched next to the spuds. “You can play with her. At least, as long as she’s okay with it.”

The puppy barked and started scrambling in Sam’s arms. The second the child put her down, she darted to Jack. She looked a lot better after only two days, more like a puppy should.

“You going back to Freddy’s tonight?” Billy finally asked as Jack scratched the puppy between the ears. “Is it open again?”

“Yeppers.” 

_ Bark. _

Jack chuckled slightly. “Looks like she wants to come along.”

“Come along?” Sam asked. “Where are you going this early?”

“I’m going to get Wooshers.”

Sam’s eye widened, even as Betty and Billy gave each other a confused look.

“Really?” 

Jack nodded, grinning. “Really.”

Sam bolted to their feet. “You gotta go, then. You don’t wanna be late!”

Jack laughed again, shaking his head. “No, I don’t, but I just woke up. I’ve still got to eat.”

Sam paused, then nodded. “Stay right here, I’ll get you food.” They darted off.

Jack couldn’t help it. He sat there and laughed, even as the puppy scrambled all over him and licked him and then speed-wobbled over to Betty and Billy for more petting.

\-----

The puppy proved to be very determined at staying next to Jack as he made his way to the harbour. She tried very hard to keep up, but after the first few blocks keeping up with his longer stride had tired the pup out. He had to pick her up and carry her, then.

She licked him.

“You’re a cute pupper.” Jack grinned at her.

A squeaky yip.

“You need a name.” Jack tilted his head to look at her. “What should I call you?”

_ Yap. _

“That’s not a very good name.” Jack rolled his eyes.

The pup’s tongue was warm and wet on his fingers.

Jack just scratched her between the ears again and looked around. He really wished Wiishu had included details in her last letter, like what time she was supposed to be arriving, and what she would be wearing—but it was far too late to arrange that now.

So he would just have to make sure she saw him.

Eventually, he found a place to stand. There was a raised stone barricade around a wooden pole, and there he stood on top of it. It was certainly more comfortable than just standing around in the middle of the harbor, where everyone would be walking. And judging by the bemused looks he got from the early passers-by, she was sure to see him.

Leaning smugly up against a pole with a puppy in his arms was definitely not too over-the-top.

As soon as ships started arriving, Jack set the puppy down and pulled his necklace out from under his clothes, making sure it could be easily seen.

_ Bark. _

“There’s gonna be a lot of people here soon.” Jack looked down at the puppy. “We’re looking for the prettiest girl around.”

The puppy stared up at Jack and tilted her head, then barked again and started wagging her tail.

“Aww.” Jack chuckled. “You’re a cutie. But you’re not the girl I’m looking for.”

She wagged her tail harder.

“Yeah, we met in Ireland. Actually, we grew up together, until we both moved away. I’ve known her for my whole life. I wonder how long that is in dog years? Probably a long time, isn’t it?”

She just panted and looked intently at Jack.

“Yeah, she’s a  _ fantastic _ artist too. Could probably paint the whole Louvre or something. I wonder if anybody would hire her down here? What do you think?”

The puppy attempted to jump up on Jack.

“Hey! You’re not gonna go anywhere with me anytime soon. I’m taken.”

“Oh, taken? By who—is it someone I know?” The voice was a woman’s; it sounded vaguely familiar. 

Jack looked up to see a small woman smiling broadly at him.

“I see you still have my necklace,” she added casually.

Jack stood up straight. “Signe.” The word was a breath as he took her in.

Her smile was gentle; her eyes bright. “Seán.”

And then Jack leapt off the stones, and they rushed up to one another, and they were hugging.

Oh, it was good to see her again. It was good to feel her, to bury his hands in her hair and breathe her exact scent in. Fresh, like a clean summer’s rain.

Between their feet, the puppy barked excitedly and scampered all over, tripping several times. 

Now, now with Wiishu here, he was home.

As Jack turned to start walking, one arm around Wiishu's waist and the other carrying her single suitcase, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face watching him from the shadows.

Jack sighed. If Rhett was going to send people to spy on him, they at least needed to be properly trained.

“This is a large city,” Wiishu observed, glancing around at the harbour as they walked. “Where do you live?”

“South Boston,” Jack said cheerfully, “I've got good neighbours.” Except for Rhett.

“When will I meet them?”

“Probably tomorrow morning.” 

“What are the plans for the day?”

“Well, where do you want to go? Would you like to settle down and relax for a bit, or-”

“Everywhere.”

Jack laughed, and the puppy barked. “Have you had lunch yet?”

Wiishu shook her head.

“Let's do lunch first, then.”

\-----

They were halfway through lunch when the puppy, who had been patiently and quietly sitting at their feet, gave a couple of barks. The tiny yaps sounded exactly the same as the ones she’d given during the Commemoration.

Jack glanced casually around, trying to spot this person that had apparently followed him twice now, without being noticed either time. He honestly wanted to know who this was, and how they’d managed to do that.

“Seán,” Wiishu said, the uncertainty clear in her voice, “did you put this in my bag?”

Jack looked to see her holding an unfolded piece of paper.

“No.”

Wiishu frowned. “Then... who did?”

Jack placed one hand reassuringly on hers. “May I see it?”

She handed it over without a bit of argument. It was heavy paper, the were creases very exact, and the was penmanship flawless. He already knew who it was from.

_ Good afternoon, Jackaboy. _

_ It’s come to my attention you performed a public service recently, even if it was just for a friend. Not only that, but there’s a lovely woman at your side who you’ve never mentioned before.  _

_ Why don’t you two come to my place for supper? Say, at seven tonight. You can introduce that puppy of yours to Edgar and Maya, and Marzia and I can meet Signe. _

_ Sincerely yours, _

_ Felix _

_ P.S. Marzia said I should deliver this to you in a normal way, but this was much more fun, don’t you think? _

Jack sighed, handing the letter back. “Felix needs to learn to not do that.”

“You know the person who sent it?”

“It would be pretty creepy to get a supper invite from someone I don’t know.” Jack bobbed his head a little as he spoke. “And anyway, he signed it. Do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. Who is he, to have an invitation to supper delivered like this? Is he powerful? Is he someone you can risk saying ‘no’ to?”

“First off: he’s rich, not powerful. Second, he has a sharper do all his work for him.” Hopefully Cry was still close enough to have heard that, because it was almost certainly Cry who had dropped the letter in Wiishu’s bag. “Third, I tell him ‘no’ a lot. Fourth, I would fight the universe itself if you didn’t want to go.” 

Wiishu rolled her eyes. “Tell me about him, then, before I decide if you have to fight the universe or not.”

Jack nodded. “Alright. So-”

Wiishu stopped him, holding up a hand. “Hold on a second. I almost forgot. You can tell me over your gifts.”

“Gifts?” Jack leaned forward in his chair. “Really?”

Wiishu smiled broadly and reached into her bag, pulling out a bag of assorted candies.

Jack let out an audible gasp. “You're an angel, Signe.”

“Half of these are mine.” She opened the large paper bag and grabbed a candy. “You can tell me about your friend now.”

“He's an overall good guy. Eccentric, sometimes, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's the richest man in Boston right now.” Jack took a handful of candy. “Not much older than I am, though.”

“Then how is he so rich?”

“Inherited it.” Jack reached for more candy, creating a small pile in front of him. “He's courting a lovely lady named Marzia, and there’s sure to be at least two staff actually at the supper with us. He’s no stickler for protocol, not like most high brows. ...Are you okay with that many strangers at once?”

“I believe I can handle four.”

Jack shrugged, all while going for more candies from the bag. The multi-coloured pile in front of him was growing. “Alright then. Felix’s a good host though, so I think it’ll be a pleasant time for us. I do kind of owe him a dinner, but I always turn him down to rile him up.”

Wiishu snatched the bag out of Jack’s reach before all of her treats could be depleted, earning herself a little pout. She smirked. “Then I think I’ll go. This ‘Felix’ of yours sounds like an interesting guy.”

“That’s certainly one way to put it.” Jack smirked at the table as he began to eat the candy. 

\-----

“This is a beautiful home,” Wiishu breathed as she took in the sight.

The puppy, in Wiishu’s arms, yapped excitedly.

“Honestly, it can be a bit of an eyesore once you get inside.” Jack couldn’t help but remember the oh-so-blue room from his last visit. “Sometimes Felix takes things to the extreme.”

Wiishu raised an eyebrow at Jack. “Because you never do.”

“I never take things to the extreme.” Jack protested, knocking on the door.

“Clearly. That’s why you ended up running from wildlife at top speed.”

The door opened mid-sentence, and a soft chuckle welcomed the couple.

Jack just gave Ken a long-suffering look.

Ken stepped back from the door, allowing them in and gathering their coats and hats. “They’re in the dining room.”

“I have no idea where that is,” Jack complained.

“Next to the hallway.” 

“Ken. There are at least four hundred hallways in this mansion.”

Ken rolled his eyes as he closed the door. “Used to be more, but we had to close some of them off. The bulls kept wanting to investigate the murders that happened there.”

Jack paused.

Ken laughed, and walked down the hall. “This way.”

“Who’s this?” Wiishu whispered softly to Jack.

“Ken Morrison. Felix’s bodyguard. He won’t hurt ya, he’s just a huge softie.” Jack said that last comment loud enough for Ken to hear. It earned him an eye roll from the larger man.

“Who’s behind us?”

Jack glanced over his shoulder, faced with that expressionless mask. “Cry. He’s Felix’s brains.”

“So... you need a Cry.” 

Jack just looked at her, though he could have sworn there was a soft chuckle from behind them.

Wiishu shifted the puppy, and the puppy stared straight behind them and yapped in that tone again.

“Hello dog.” Cry said pleasantly. “We meet again.”

_ Yap. _

“Rude.”

“You’ve seen this dog before?” Wiishu asked the masked man.

“I guess, once or twice. It doesn’t like me all that much, huh?” Cry replied in a tone that was too nonchalant for Wiishu to be comfortable with. 

“You can set your dog down,” Felix said from his seat as they walked into the dining room. “Edgar and Maya are taking a nap, so they won’t hurt her. Just let her roam around, explore the scents. She’ll be safe here.”

Wiishu gently set the puppy down.

The puppy instantly darted to Cry and started tugging at his shoelaces.

“Puppy, no.” Cry laughed. “I need those.”

Felix stood smoothly and gave a small bow to Wiishu. “Welcome,  _ mademoiselle, _ to my humble abode.”

Marzia snorted from her seat. “There’s nothing humble about this place.”

“I could have built a palace.” Felix gave her a steady look, as if building a palace was really something he had considered.

Marzia gave a mysterious smile. “Perhaps.”

“I’m Felix.” Felix finally introduced himself, then gestured to Marzia. “This is Marzia.”

“I’m Signe, but call me Wiishu.”

Marzia raised her eyebrows slightly, as if surprised (or pleased) Wiishu had introduced herself rather than Jack doing so for both of them—but neither she nor Felix said anything. (Cry was still lecturing the puppy in the background, hiding any quiet comments Ken might have made.)

“Cry was supposed to be serving supper tonight,” Felix said as he glanced behind Jack and grinned, “but he’s occupied, so we’ll have Ken do it.”

“I do so many things for Cry,” Ken grumbled softly, walking away. “He owes me one for this.”

“Add it to the list.” Cry pulled his feet away from the puppy once again.

\-----

“Oh my goodness, this meal has been absolutely gorgeous! It’s been such a long time since I had food like this,” Wiishu complimented as she savoured the last remains of the dish.

“Why don’t you share your compliments with the chef?” Felix gestured to Ken, who grinned unabashedly in return.

“It’s delicious! Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, glad you liked it.” Ken chuckled. “I used to be a cook some time ago.” 

“I guess this kind of luxury is hard to come by in Ireland,” Marzia said quietly.

“Yeah, Ireland... is going through tough times. It was getting rougher by the day.” Wiishu’s expression turned inward. “But my family—and Seán’s, especially—made it so much easier for me. I’ll never, ever be able to repay him, or anyone, for their kindness. Or for their support, especially. I’m so thankful for their support—and I’m thankful for Seán, for this opportunity he’s given me.” She sent Jack a loving glance, which he returned… with a rather over-eager grin.

Jack was fidgeting, nearly shaking in his seat. His eyes were wide and bright, and he had a permanent grin on his face. On his knees he was tapping out a fast-paced rhythm—which immediately stopped when Ken entered the room.

“I’ve brought some tarts for dessert, if any of you would like some.” Ken settled a large platter of assorted tarts on the half-cleared dining table. There were little round fruit tarts, like tiny pies, with a dusting of powdered sugar on top. Delicate wedges of almond tarts, the pastry paper-thin and the slices of almonds nearly see-through against the dark filling. And small pastries (which looked similar to the mincemeat tarts both Jack and Wiishu were used to) with high, pale cups and smooth filling, topped with a caramelized pecan half.

“Butter tarts,” Ken supplied, “Cry’s favourite. He had to bring the recipe with him from C- from... where he used to live, and we gave it to our most trusted baker, to keep as a secret. Even now no one else makes them quite the same way, or so I’ve heard.”

Jack made a sound of pure joy; something between a laugh and a giggle.

“You haven’t had enough sweets for one day?” Wiishu squinted at him.

Jack grinned back. “Never.”

Wiishu rolled her eyes.

Ken laughed and snatched a fruit tart before walking over to lean against the wall. 

Jack reached across Wiishu to grab not one, but two of the tarts. The first he placed in front of him, but the other he shoved into his mouth, the flaky pastry and sweet, sticky filling doing little to muffle his moan of delight.

Wiishu shook her head at him as she delicately selected a tart from the tray. “You are just  _ en lille dreng _ ,” she told him fondly, “nothing has changed.”

Jack snorted, and a tiny puff of icing sugar flew up off the pastry. “Nope,” he mumbled through his mouthful, eyes crinkling with a smile, “I haven’t changed a bit. Still love sweets. Love anything sweet. It’s the best.”

Felix grabbed a tart and put it in front of himself, then gave a broad grin to Marzia.

Marzia and Wiishu soon dominated the conversation, while Felix listened in as he repeatedly placed tarts near Jack. Jack either did not notice this or, more likely, he was choosing to ignore the fact that the tart in front of him kept ‘reappearing’. He was content just eating them.

Cry pulled his feet away from the puppy’s mouth once again, receiving a sleepy yap in return, then walked over to the table and grabbed the last butter tart.

“How were you planning on eating that?” Jack laughed. “I’ve never even seen your mouth.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got one.” Cry turned and began walking off. “I just had to snag this before you ate them all.”

“There were half a dozen butter tarts,” Jack protested, “I have not eaten them all.”

“That makes one for each of us,” Cry called over his shoulder. “Felix has eaten his, and this is mine, and there’s exactly one left.”

Jack crossed his arms and pouted slightly. His leg was bouncing.

The puppy put a paw on Jack’s foot, then whined softly when he moved it. He scooped her up and began to petting her, grinning all the while.

_ Yap. _

“Hello, there.”

_ Yap? _

Jack gave a delighted laugh. “You’re a good doggo.”

The puppy got to work on licking his fingers clean of sugar grains. Jack was soon quietly squealing at the sensation, and squirming worse than the little pup.

“You still planning on going to Freddy’s tonight?” Felix leaned forward in his seat, speaking carefully to catch Jack’s scattered attention.

Jack threw a grin at Felix. “Absolutely, Felix! Yes I will. I’m going, definitely. Wouldn’t miss it for the world! Not for the world, or a million bucks, or anything. I love going there. I absolutely love my drums, and I love everyone there. PJ is an amazing human. And an amazing bass player, did you know? Signe, you should come. You need to hear...”

As Jack blabbered on, Marzia sighed and shook her head. “Why did you do it.”

“It was a great idea.” Felix grinned, eyes glinting mischievously as he watched Jack. 

“Go where?” Wiishu finally asked, turning to Jack. “What’s Freddy’s?”

Jack’s grin nearly split his face. “It’s my night job. I’ve got a lot of friends who work there. I play the drums, but I said that already, didn’t I. And I told you about PJ too. What about Mark? He’s an amazing guy. I can’t wait for you to meet him!”

Felix’s grin faded. “Go easy on Mark, okay?”

Jack paused, settling the puppy in his lap before ever so slightly narrowing his eyes at Felix. “Why?”

Felix sat up straight, frowning. “You don’t know?”

Jack narrowed his eyes more. “ _ What happened _ .” The energy he’d been sending all about the room was now focused solely on Felix.

“He collapsed Monday night, right before the Tiny Box closed.” Marzia said softly. 

“Exhaustion, I heard.” Felix frowned. “I mean, he looked tired on Sunday, but I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Jack swore, and Marzia, obviously shocked, blinked.

Felix glowered at Jack.  

“I’ll keep an eye on him tonight,” Jack promised, entirely disregarding his hosts’ reactions, “even if I have to run the entire joint by myself.”

“You’ve certainly got the energy.” Felix sighed, leaning back in his seat and giving Jack a good lookover. “I’ll get Cry to drive us down. Last thing I need is you walking into a pole or a tree because you were jumping all over, paying no attention to your surroundings.”

Jack snorted. “I wouldn’t do that.” Then he grinned broadly. “Not deliberately, anyway.”

Felix raised his eyebrows. “Sure.” He glanced at the time. “As soon as Cry gets back from the kitchen, we can get going. It's late.”

“What am I doing, as soon as I return?” Cry’s voice entered the room ahead of him.

Ken tossed him the keys to the automobile, which Cry deftly caught.

“You’re driving our guests to their next destination,” Felix told him with a grin.


	15. Friends at Freddy's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:  
> Hymn to A Blue Hour - John Mackey  
> Sketch of Melba - Eric Dolphy  
> Caravan - Dizzy Gillespie  
> 

**_“You ready for this, Mark?”_ **

**_“Readier than you you are, Tom.”_ **

**_“Is ‘readier’ even a real word?”_ **

**_“It is! Check the dictionary!”_ **

**_“Right, because they definitely have one of those just lying around.”_ **

**_“Well then you’re just going to have to take my word for it, aren’t you?”_ **

**_“Ha, guess so.”_ **

_Mark blinked a bit as the familiar conversation drifted back to him. Where was he? It looked- no, it_ **_felt_ ** _\- like he was surrounded by darkness. However, the two voices rang loud and clear in his ears, as if their owners were standing right in front of him._

_Technically, he_ **_was_ ** _one of them. Younger him, anyway, by several years. He could recall exactly when and where_ **_Tom_ ** _—yes, it was Tom—and himself shared this conversation._

  1. _Massachusetts General Hospital. A beautiful spring day right in the middle of May, about a month before Mark’s twenty-first birthday._



_As if on cue, the shadows before Mark cleared, and slowly the blurred shape of a white room entered his field of vision. There was Tom, so young (even if it was only six years ago); young because he hadn’t been touched by the war yet. By the horrors of battle, of people dying, of watching the whole world burn before him. No, this was a more innocent Tom. Mark could see it in the smoothness of his face and brightness in his brown eyes—echoed in Mark, two years his junior._

_They were smiling at each other. Laughing. Just a couple of able-bodied young men prepared to lay down their lives for their country; for the greater good. Just like their father. He’d looked so proud of them that morning, before they headed off to get their physicals._

_Though not before stopping at a bar for some liquid fortification, of course. Mark could remember that, too. The fated hit of amber liquid that no doubt changed the entire course of his life- of_ **_their_ ** _lives. Their relationship, as brothers._

_Tom didn’t smile freely at him like that anymore. He didn’t laugh, open and easy. His touches were stiff and his hugs were tense. Mark hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it._

**_“Jason Fischbach?”_ **

**_“Well, that’s me. Meet you outside after the exam?”_ **

**_“Please. You’ll be the one meeting me outside. They’ll take one look at me and know I’m good.”_ **

**_“Haha, okay Mr. Humble, we’ll see about that.”_ **

_Tom had clapped Mark on the shoulder, a gesture of reassurance, and left him alone. He watched- remembered?- another nurse calling his name soon after. Except everything had gone dizzy when he stood up, and he’d barely made it to the door before he was collapsing into nothing._

_Mark remembered. He remembered waking up in the hospital, of the doctors finding the tumor; being told he couldn’t fight. His father’s guilt and disappointment, clashing with relief and and fear on his brother’s face._

**_“I can’t just leave you here like this.”_ **

**_“Tom, you wanted to go to war before we even became part of it. Remember? You said you were gonna sneak on a ship to London and join up. You got a pass. You can’t just stop now.”_ **

**_“But you’re…”_ **

**_“I’ll be okay. They said it shouldn’t spread if they get it out right now. I’m fine. Go. For me.”_ **

**_“...okay. Okay, I’ll do it. For us. But you better be out of that bed and on your feet when I come back on leave.”_ **

**_“I’ll be the one tackling you at the shipyard.”_ **

_Mark did recover. He met Tom on his brief leave. He didn’t attempt to join the fight again until he was forced to, until the government started to enlist. The day of his exam, he took a shot alone, and went to the same hospital. Again, he collapsed. This time there was no tumor, but the doctor claimed he was simply unfit for service. Clearly, he was in questionable health for some unknown reason._

_Mark knew, though. He knew after that second collapse, and then the third when he tested his suspicions at home; when his mother found him passed out in the kitchen. There was nothing wrong with Mark- at least, not independently._

_He was just allergic to alcohol. Fancy that. Never had been before, yet suddenly too much made him sick as a dog. High proof stuff was even worse. Technically, he could enlist. Technically, he was fit for service. Technically,_ **_there was nothing wrong with him._ **

_But Mark was a coward. He’d been a coward then, and he was still a coward now. Telling Tom to be more careful…_

**_“Going out, giving these speeches, saying all these things that’re gonna get you killed. Do you have a death wish or something?! You didn’t even have any protection at that rally, other than a few bulls, I bet! Fat lot of good they’d do against a sniper’s bullet!”_ **

**_“Mark.”_ **

**_“No! Don’t you ‘Mark’ me—it’s true! If someone else hadn’t randomly, by complete luck and chance, been there to watch your ass, you’d be sitting in the morgue right now instead of standing here, arguing with me-”_ **

**_“Mark, that speech I gave, those things needed to be said. The people need to stand up against these transgressors. They need to know that we, as public servants, are prepared to stand up with them. If we just sit behind our desks, cowering in fear, then the gangs win. The criminals and thieves and bootleggers win—and I will not stand by while those kinds of people ruin everything dad, and I, and all our friends, deceased or otherwise, fought for!”_ **

**_“You’re going to get yourself killed.”_ **

**_“You don’t understand.”_ **

_Tom was the brave one; the bold one. Oh sure, Mark had confidence and charisma, but that wasn’t_ **_guts_ ** _or_ **_courage_ ** _. That wasn’t what their dad had when he fought in the war. Tom went to war. Mark didn’t. Mark chickened out, once he knew he had an excuse. He read Tom’s letters and learned condensed versions of the horrors and felt his stomach twist and turn. He laid in bed late at night, tossing and turning, terror gripping at his ribs until he could scarcely breathe and he_ **_didn’t fight._ **

_Tom was still fighting. He was putting himself on a different front line. Putting his life at risk for a new greater good. There wasn’t a gun in his hands or a helmet on his head, but there were still bullets aimed for his skull. Bullets… bullets that could’ve…_

**_“Tom?”_ **

_No… no, that wasn’t right. What was going on?_

**_“Tom?!”_ **

_This wasn’t how it happened. Mark didn’t remember this._

**_“Oh my god, Tom!”_ **

_Tom was standing there in front of Mark, just as he had been that night, but the concern and frustration were draining away from his face, along with most of his color. He stood, staring at Mark with wide brown eyes, while a trickle of red slipped from the corner of his open mouth. His jaw was slack from shock and suddenly Mark was no longer a spectator, he was no longer a ghost in the background, he was_ **_there._ **

_Mark was_ **_there,_ ** _and more red was blossoming across Tom’s nice suit jacket. It spread out in uneven waves, reminding Mark of the red lilies that used to grow in the woods outside Boston. They’d brought some home to their mom once, but she’d hissed and disposed of them immediately. Mark could still remember her words._

**_(“You don’t touch those flowers! Any color, you leave them alone. They are for death. They are for the dead, and they should be respected the same. If you pick too many they will shorten your life for it, they will be a curse!”)_ **

_Red was still blooming across Tom’s suit, and then he coughed. Blood spewed from his lips and Mark swore he could feel it wet on his face; smell the odious iron as more rivulets dribbled down Tom’s chin. He coughed again: it was like once he’d started, he just couldn’t stop, and with each desperate heave came more_ **_red._ **

_Mark rushed to his brother immediately, catching the older man as his knees buckled and threatened to send_ **_him_ ** _to the floor. (It wasn’t supposed to be Tom, it was Mark. Mark collapsed not Tom_ **_never Tom_ ** _-)_

_“Tom!” Mark held his brother, slowly lowering them both down to the floor while Tom continued to hack and wheeze. There was blood on Mark’s hands, on his shirt, his pants-_ **_Tom’s blood_ ** _, it was all Tom’s blood and oh god there was just so much-_

_“Mark…” The sound was more a burbling exhale than an actual word, but it was_ **_his name_ ** _. He’d never miss it on his brother’s lips._

_Mark could feel the tears welling up in his eyes; streaming down his face. “Tom… Tom, just- just hang on, Tom. I-” His breath hitched, and he raised his head to look wildly around. There was no one there. Nothing. Even the restaurant had disappeared, leaving only Mark, Tom, a table and their chairs like some spotlit scene in the darkness. Mark drew a deep breath, straining his lungs with a cry nonetheless. “-HELP!! Help us, someone! Please! My brother is dying! Tom is dying he’s- T-Tom… Tom.. Tom, no… no….” He hiccuped._

_Tom looked as if he were trying to say something, but he could scarcely breathe by that point. The bullet must have pierced a lung. All of his oxygen was replaced with blood and he gurgled in Mark’s arms; pale, disheveled,_ **_dying._ ** _He had his hand pressed tight over his own chest but it was far too late for that. All it did was make it look like he was giving the pledge, or when he swore to serve his country._

_Mark sobbed. Tom was dying in his arms and there was absolutely nothing he could do. He couldn’t protect him. He couldn’t save him. He couldn’t do_ **_anything_ ** _except watch him die because he refused to let him die alone. “Shh… s-shh, Tom… d-don’t try to talk, okay? Don’t push yourself… I’m here… M-Mark’s here….” He brushed some of the dark hair from Tom’s face; smearing blood on pale skin in the process. His breath hitched again._

_Tom was staring up at his face, his eyes already going glassy but the faintest of smiles still present. He couldn’t speak, not with blood pouring steadily from his mouth. But his lips moved of their own volition, forming a single syllable Mark recognized. It made him cry all the harder as the last watery breath was expelled from his brother’s ruined chest._

**_Dad…_ **

_“Tom… Tom… no, Tom… you can’t die. You can’t… Tom... Tom…” Mark drew several inhales without letting the air back out, holding it in. He held it and compressed it until his own chest felt liable to explode. When he finally exhaled, it was with an anguished cry buried deep into Tom’s bloodied chest. Mark held his brother close and cried. He stuttered nonsense into his suit; apologies, excuses, pleas and love. He blamed himself. He blamed his inadequacy- his cowardice._

_Tom was dead, and the last words Mark had said to him were full of hate and rage and bitter, bitter jealousy._

“Mark?”

Mark startled awake at the sound of his name and promptly toppled straight off his bed. A tangle of sheets, the blanket, and even the pillow went with him. They helped to cushion his fall somewhat, but the ensuing thud was loud nonetheless. He grunted.

“Mark?!”

_Tom._ That was Tom’s voice calling his name, except- Tom was dead. Right? Mark swore he could still feel the cooling, bloody body in his arms. He could still smell it in the air; on his clothes. Grunting again, he fought with the sheets, slowly worming his way free of their grasp. Everything was a blur and he needed his glasses.

“Tom?”

“Mark, are you okay?! What was that?”

“Tom…” Mark’s voice was slurred, thick with sleep still, as he stumbled onto his feet. He flailed wildly in the general direction of his bedside table and managed to locate his eyeglasses. He fumbled to put them on as he turned towards the door. “Tom… Tom, I’m comin’... ‘m…” His feet didn’t seem eager to cooperate as he shuffled towards the square of wood. Mark swayed dangerously; he barely caught himself on the dresser. His weight knocked into it heavily, sending several items to the floor. “Tom… .”

“Mark?! Mark, I’m coming in.”

Mark was able to re-orient himself and threw his weight towards the door with a renewed fervor. He went careening the remaining few feet just as it was thrown open, and Tom narrowly caught him for a second time.

“Woah! Woah, Mark, easy… geez, what’re you doing out of bed? You nearly hit the floor again, c’mon. If mom saw you up she’d see to it herself you were bedridden for a week.” Tom heaved Mark up, looping one of Mark’s arms around his shoulders, and helped Mark back over to the mess that had been made of his bed. Once Mark was sitting on its edge, he took the immediate initiative to gather up the pile of bed sheets.

“Tom… .” Tom was there. He was _alive._ Tom was alive and breathing and not covered in blood. It was just a nightmare. He sagged with relief and nearly fell off the bed again. “Tom… .”

“Mark! Mark, god, what’s going on with you? Come on, lay down. Here’s your pillow,” Tom said as his hands steadied Mark once again, and he eased Mark into laying on his back. Dutifully, he dragged the blanket up to Mark’s chin. “There you go.”

“Tom… .” Before his older brother could pull away, Mark wiggled his arms free of the blanket and threw them around Tom’s neck.

It was Tom’s turn to grunt as he was dragged down, pressing a hand to the bed to avoid just falling on top of his surely delirious brother. He sputtered a bit, his eyes wide with surprise as Mark’s face was buried into his neck. He didn’t know what to say.

“‘M sorry, Tom. ‘m so sorry… .” Mark apologized in a strained whisper, trembling slightly while he clung to his brother.

Tom continued to stare at the wall for a moment, beyond stunned, but eventually he coaxed his free arm into wrapping around Mark’s shoulders again. This time, it was in a returned embrace instead of purely support. He let out the breath he’d been holding in a sigh as Mark began to cry quietly into his shoulder. Gently, he tilted his head down to press his lips against Mark’s dark hair, shushing him. “ _Shh.. shh…_ it’s okay, _aga,_ I’m here… Tom’s here… I’ve got you… .”

\-------

“Mark?”

Mark blinked, and the world around him melted back into focus. The Tiny Box had closed, and the team was preparing to open Freddy’s. It had been two nights now, since it had been open. Since Mark had been around, in order for it to be open.

Ethan snapped his fingers in front of Mark’s nose. “Err, Mark? Are you feeling alright? Do you need to rest until we open?” Concern laced every word Ethan spoke, and the worry in his blue eyes was clear.

Mark shook his head. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

Ethan, not at all convinced by his words, narrowed his eyes. Mark let out a sigh of irritation.

He was tired of people forcing him to rest. His mother, Amy, Ethan… everyone. The list was endless. They’d kept him away from the Tiny Box, away from Freddy’s, for two days.

But he couldn’t stand any more rest. He wanted to make people smile again. He wanted to hear the laughter and music of Freddy’s; bump gums with the regulars at the Tiny Box and share gossip with those working with him.

He missed his friends. Freddy’s was the only time he ever saw Jack and PJ and Molly. He hardly saw Wade anymore, too, and that was sad. They’d been friends since childhood; Wade deserved better.

So tonight, he’d convinced Ethan to send out word that Freddy’s would be opening its doors once again.

“Mark.” Ethan pointed at a chair, his chin set stubbornly. “Sit.”

Mark scowled. “No.” Why did Ethan keep trying this? Hadn’t he been clear the very moment he’d walked in that he was here to work? That he was here to pick up where he’d left off; to make things go back to normal?

Ethan left his cleaning rag on the table and walked over. “Mark.”

Mark drew out a long sigh and pulled off his regular suit jacket. “I need to switch to my uniform.”

Ethan crossed his arms. Mark chose to ignore him. If he took long enough to pull on Warfstache’s jacket, PJ and Jack would arrive—and with them, an even better excuse to ignore Ethan.

When he walked back into the main room, his street clothes tucked away in one of the back closets, the sound of the back door slamming shut and the click of heels on the kitchen tile announced someone’s presence.

“Good evening, Wilford.” PJ said, his voice lacking its normal cheer.

Mark looked over as PJ exited from the kitchen, noticing how very slightly concerned the other man looked.

Oh, not PJ too.

“Where's Jack?” Maybe, just maybe, PJ would pick up the hint and wipe that look off his face.

PJ shook his head, his expression remaining on just the wrong side of blue. “Haven't seen him today. Usually don’t, until I get here.”

“He’d better not be late.”

“He has yet to be, Wilford,” PJ assured, walking over to the musician’s stand. “He’ll be here.”

Slowly, the tune of PJ warming up his bass filled the room. Then the Grumps arrived, drifting to their spots as they chinned and dropped teases—and still no sign of Jack.

They were supposed to open the doors in just a few minutes.

Then the unmistakable boisterous laugh of a particular Irishman, a series of tiny yaps, and a very firm “No, FeliIIIIX!” filtered in through the other back door before a whole group of people barreled in. It was Jack, followed closely by Felix and a woman, with Cry trailing behind. And there, scampering between their feet, was a little golden-furred puppy.

Instantly, Mark’s sour mood was gone. He crouched and gestured at the pup, trying to get its attention.

The puppy came willingly, sniffing at Mark first before licking at his outstretched hand.

“You're so adorable,” Mark crooned.

“I'm thinking of naming her Chica, since they both have such good taste,” Jack said just a bit too cheerfully, “and the drink here is the same colour as her pelt. She’s got a good taste in people, though, while a Chica just tastes good.” Jack snickered as Chica found a shoelace and began to pull—much to Mark’s amused dismay. “She found me a couple of days ago, and stuck with me since. Nosy little pupper.”

“Hello.” Molly's voice came smoothly. “I don't believe we've met before. You can call me Madame Foxglove.”

“I'm Signe. Call me Wiishu.” That was an unfamiliar voice, and Mark looked up with a start, only just recalling the young woman who was holding Jack's hand.

“Welcome to Freddy's,” Molly replied, smiling.

Mark walked up and offered Wiishu a bow. “I’m Mark. If you require anything, just ask myself or the employees here.”

Beside Wiishu, Jack snorted. She ignored him and smiled. “So you’re Mark.”

Mark looked up at the young woman in surprise. “You… know me from somewhere?”

Wiishu shared a look with Jack before turning back to him with a smile. “Of course. Jack told me very good things about you.”

Mark, startled, glanced over to Jack before managing a weak, “H-Has he?”

Jack let out a bark of laughter. “Of course, man! How could I neglect to mention how you run the place with such gusto and charm?”

Jack’s face, quite suddenly, smoothed out; he narrowed his eyes at Mark. “But what’s this I’ve heard about you collapsing, and being out of commission for two days?” Something flickered in Jack’s gaze, turning the once bright-as-the-sky blue eyes into something darker, and more turbulent.

Mark, startled by the abrupt change, shivered. How was it that his little incident had been enough to bring out such a change in this Irishman? Jack was always the ray of sunshine in the room; Jack was always the live wire you had to watch your toes around.

Now, he hardly recognized his friend.

Jack maintained his strange, steely gaze with Mark while he continued. “I’m here to make sure you don’t kick the bucket before Death even considers putting you on his list.”

Mark sputtered, at a loss for words. There was something so final, so matter-of-fact, about the way he’d said that—it was as though Jack was sure he had the ability to make it so.

Then from beside him, Molly chuckled softly, and before he could formulate a response, a familiar and urbane voice cut through the taut atmosphere.

“That’s just swell, but I would think ol’ Mark here would dig himself an earlier grave trying to keep you from bringing this place down with that energy of yours.”

“It’s not difficult to see where that ‘robust energy’ came from,” Cry muttered as the two of them joined the conversation. Judging from the looks that Wiishu was giving Felix, Mark had no need to guess.

Mark sighed. “You had to go and do him in like that, didn’t you?”

Entirely unfazed by the stares he was receiving, Felix simply shrugged and offered up his award-winning smile.

“I thought it would slay.”

“Says you,” Wiishu groaned, while Jack bounded excitedly over to PJ on the stage. PJ merely gave Jack a look of disbelief as he warmed up.

“What’s eating Jackaboy here?”

Mark glanced over to see Wade join Molly’s side, his arm hooking affectionately around her waist.

“This sap of an egg over here-” Wiishu pointed over to Felix indignantly, “thought it would ‘slay’,” she emphasized mockingly, “to overload Seán with sugar.”

At this, Felix muttered, “What a wurp,” under his breath, while Mark could have sworn Cry was smirking underneath his mask. Mark glanced over to to Wade, only to find a grin filled with mischief written all over his features.

“Is that so?” Mark narrowed his eyes, not bothering to conceal his suspicions. Molly pressed a few fingers to her forehead, and sighed.

“Wade, no.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I’m not planning anything.” Wade said politely, with a completely innocent look.

“Good. Keep not planning anything.” Molly shook her head, then turned to Wiishu. “You’re welcome to join me at my table tonight. Wade looks threatening, but he won’t hurt you.”

A short laugh came from Cry. “Not unless you order him to.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at Cry, and after a moment he looked away.

Mark stepped between them, frowning at them both. “I haven’t had a single murder here yet, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Cry moved back. “I’ll wait in the kitchen. Don’t be long.”

“I was actually thinking of staying until closing,” Felix said with a grin.

“...I’ll come get you in an hour.” With that, Cry turned and vanished into the kitchen.

Molly turned to Wade. “Do you remember how to make that herbal chamomile tea?”

Wade nodded. “I think so.”

“Good, get it to Jack before too many people arrive.” She turned on her heels and left for her table. Wiishu started to follow after her, but Mark held up a hand.

“One more thing,” he told her. “It’s Wilford Warfstache when customers are here.”

She nodded, then trailed after Molly.

Felix had left for the stage, a wide grin on his face, obviously very eager to see the fruition of his scheme unfold before his eyes. That left Mark with Wade. He turned to speak with his friend.

“Well, Wade. I’d better finish prepping for the night, and…”

He trailed off. Wade’s eyes held a glint of mischief, and he was failing to hide a telltale smile.

“Yeah, Mark?”

“Wade, please.”

Wade frowned. “Oh, come on, pal! You’re starting to sound like Molly.”

Mark shook his head. “Just don’t break anything you can’t buy. I heard that you’ve been giving away more dough than you can work for at the construction site these days,” he said casually as he turned away, “Molly may have some rubes coming in, but she can’t always let you know when you’ve been taking wooden nickels.”

Wade gave an exaggerated gasp of outrage. “Me? Why, I’d never! And are you really going to charge an old friend for something they can’t control?”

Mark turned his head around only for a second to shoot Wade a smirk.

“Of course not. You’ll be paying someone else, though.”


	16. Calamitous Collapsing Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:  
> All The Things You Are - Dizzy Gillespie  
> Dizzy Atmosphere - Dizzy Gillespie  
> Be-Bop - Dizzy Gillespie  
> 

There was still much to do, so Mark returned to setting up the speakeasy for the night. Even though the ache had settled in his bones again, and he wanted to do nothing more than creep slowly through the night, he ignored it in favour of getting work done. Truthfully, he felt better today after two days of inactivity, and he would be restless without work to take his mind off of things. It felt good to be working again, to be around his friends. It was worth any pain he was going through now—it was worth anything he’d go through later, when his body hurt from more than the day’s work and he was alone in his room with nothing but his thoughts.

As a small stream of customers started coming in, and Mark caught sight of Wade beckoning Ethan over to the bar. He watched them closely as Wade talked to Ethan and gestured to the steaming cup of camomile tea, and even closer when Ethan bounded off to the kitchen a moment later, spoon in hand. Mark’s suspicions were confirmed when Ethan came back, carefully holding a heaping spoonful of sugar.

Mark groaned, but before he could head over and prevent the disaster, the sight of Dan and Phil walking in stopped Mark in his tracks. Hesitantly he waved, all the while his gaze fastened on Phil’s obviously silver hair. 

Mark realized he was staring. In fact, the small number of customers who were here had also stopped to give the duo looks, the ambient noise of chatter dying down, allowing Dan’s giggle to be heard clearly across the room. Phil tried to duck behind the other half of the Boston Bumblers. It didn’t work very well.

Shrugging the whole picture off, Mark returned to his work. He almost missed Wade giving Jack the tea—almost. It was going to be an interesting night.

Some time passed, and there was now a considerable number of people in the speakeasy. The atmosphere was heavy with alcohol and lively with the many conversations. The band had been managing to play relatively gentle songs; pieces that went easy on the drums and percussion. So Mark was not ready when a sudden thundering crashed over the whole speakeasy, and he looked over to the stage to find Jack hammering away. Dan was struggling to keep up on the piano, and PJ had a distinctly strained look on his face. 

He recognized the song immediately. It was one of the fast songs in their repertoire, one that they could pull out in case they needed to liven the room. There was one problem, however: Jack was leading the band in a speed too unconventional for this song, despite its basic nature of being fast. The ensemble gave off a sound like the rumbling of a quickly collapsing building—likely because Jack’s drums were the clearest sound. 

After the song ended, Mark finished up a conversation he’d been having with one of the patrons and poured a few glasses of his speakeasy’s own brew. Placing everything on a tray before making his way over to the stage, Mark couldn’t help but notice the dark look both Molly and Wiishu were sporting. Jack, on the other hand, looked fine, if not even more hyper and energetic than he had been an hour ago.

No, it was the rest of the band who was suffering: Dan breathed heavily while he slumped across the piano, while PJ studied his fingers with a pained frown. Mark sighed. 

“That was… high-spirited, to say the least,” he commented while distributing the drinks.

“Jack,” Dan groaned. “What are you running on?”

Jack ignored him in favour of bouncing in place and grinning crazily, accepting the glass Mark handed over.

“That was definitely the cat’s meow!” Jack took a huge drink, then immediately spat the contents onto a certain pianist before scowling and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He narrowed his eyes at Mark. “What the hell, Wilford! What are you trying to pull on me?”

Mark produced a napkin for a grimacing Dan before he turned to face Jack.

“Water. I thought it would help to pull the breaks on you.”

PJ snorted. “At least some people have sense.”

Jack waved his still half-full cup around, sloshing water everywhere (Mark stepped back, but Dan received the brunt of it again). “Hooey! We’re going to play the night away while it’s still young, and water won’t do anything to slow me down.”

Dan was making a face at Jack. Mark apologetically handed him a second cloth napkin (the first was soaked) before he noticed in his peripheral that Molly was speaking with a sheepish-looking Wade. Her face was calm, but her eyes held disappointment.

Wiishu, too, was frowning at Wade from her seat at Molly’s table. After a bit longer, Wade went to another table and sat down. Mark was about to head over there when PJ called him back.

“Hey Wilford, are you in for a song?” PJ’s tone was casual, but there was a hint of desperation in his eyes.

Mark was about to answer when Jack clasped a hand on his back, earning an  _ oomph _ from Mark before wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders.

“I don’t see why not! We need our trumpet if everything’s going to be Jake!”

“Err…” Mark gave Jack an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but there’s still a lot of work to be done.” Jack pouted at his words. “I’ll see if I can make time for a tune, though.”

PJ nodded. “Fair enough.”

Mark gently pulled off Jack’s arms and turned to Wade’s table. He was just in time to catch sight of JP walking away from the table. Oh dear. Mark strode over and instead of sitting in the chairs, placed his elbows on the surface and leaned over.

“What sort of devilry are you up to this time?”

Wade merely gave him a guilty smile.

“I can never hide anything from you or Molly, huh?”

“Is that why you were looking more embarrassed than some sap caught trying to swindle a few minutes ago?”

Wade shrugged. “How obvious am I?”

“As obvious as Felix’s mansion.”

Wade’s face fell. “As obvious as that stone-cold giggle juice egg? That bad?”

Mark finally pulled up a chair and sat down. “Sure.” He locked eyes with Wade. “What did you have the kid do?”

Wade shrugged. “Nothing awful.”

Mark raised his eyebrows.

Wade sighed. “He brought some cookies with us. Very… very sugary ones.”

Mark squinted at Wade for a minute. “Oh. I see.” He stood, hands flat on the table. “I’m telling Molly.”

Wade sighed again, seemingly resigned to his fate. “You realize he’s already gotten the cookies to Jack, right?”

Mark glanced over his shoulder to see that, yes, Jack was eating cookies. Dan had also taken one, and was now watching Jack, everything about him wary.

“I’ll tell on him, too,” Mark assured.

Wade grinned. “At least I won’t be the only one in trouble.” He paused, then stood. “Here, I’ll save you the effort of walking over to her and turn myself in.” 

Mark squinted at him again. “Why would you do that?”

The concerned look on Wade’s face said it all.

Mark sighed. “I’m fine, Wade. Really.”

“You’re shaking,” Wade countered.

Mark took a deep breath, forcing his body to be still. “No, I’m not.”

Wade crossed his arms.

Mark shook his head. “Look, I have to return to work. You can either turn yourself into Molly or I’ll do it for you. Either way, I need to get going.”

Wade’s face was almost pleading. “Mark, please don’t overdo it again.”

Mark had already moved away from Wade’s table. As he swept around the speakeasy, the concern on people’s faces was becoming increasingly evident, but he ignored it in favor of running the speakeasy. 

During this time, the ensemble was playing another song, and once again, Jack was leading them into an inevitable crash. As the tempo-setter for the whole band, Jack somehow managed to cook up an even faster beat than before, and the strain was clear on everyone’s faces. Jack looked fine enough, but Dan and PJ were clearly regretting all choices that had led them to this moment.

Between Mark’s stubbornness, Jack’s folly, and the rest of the band’s refusal to give up, it seemed the workers of Freddy’s were destined to push themselves too hard. 

After the second song ended, Mark brought over more drinks—because honestly, Dan and PJ were dying. Dan had flopped onto the piano when the song ended and was profusely sweating. PJ leaned on his bass and rubbed at his fingers, breathing heavily.

“You should bandage those fingers before they get any more raw,” Mark commented as he came over.

PJ grimaced. “Perhaps,” he replied, flexing his left hand carefully.

As Mark handed Dan the second glass of the evening, the pianist muttered under his breath while glaring at someone in the audience. Mark followed his line of sight to JP. 

“Someone should smash this Mick’s drumsets and take him off the stage. Or at the very least, get that boy to stop feeding him the Devil’s energy.”

Mark could only offer him yet another apologetic smile. “Unfortunately, Jack is crucial to the band. Taking him off is like cutting off a limb or ripping out your voicebox. Besides,” Mark said with a chuckle, “the drumsets look pretty smashed already.”

Dan only fixed Mark with a glower.

“Why don’t you play, then?”

Mark shuddered, thinking about the consequences of playing with Jack in this state. He turned back to see Jack shaking with excitement and grinning at the thought of playing with the full band again.

“Uh… I can’t really abandon running around and making sure these boozehounds don’t roughhouse the place down. There were already two days of closure, so today is busier than usual and-”

Dan interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure Amy and Ethan can keep the whole speakeasy together while you play one song. Besides, you were doing more than you should.” Mark caught Jack’s eyes as Dan continued. “And anyway, you’re just as important as everyone else in the band. Somebody needs to restrain Satan, reincarnated into a drummer, over here.” Dan jabbed his thumb at Jack.

Mark sighed and rubbed at his chin. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge in a tune for the people.

He looked around at the speakeasy. While it was true that it was more crowded than ever, it was also true that it could survive without him. Besides, Jack looked like he would force Mark into playing anyways if he refused. He gave in.

“Alright. Maybe one song, but at normal speed, and Jack-”

Mark’s words died in his throat when he realized the Irishman had swiped Dan’s drink while they weren’t looking, and was currently chugging down the contents. They both swore loudly.

“Well,” PJ finally spoke up, “looks like I can’t see a man about a dog now.”

Mark groaned and ran a hand through his hair.

“Jack, we’re doing this in my tempo. Nothing neck-breaking, finger-breaking, or otherwise painful. Keep your impulses under control, understood?”

Jack grinned. “Ab-so-lute-ly!”

Mark only spared him a weary glance before he went to retrieve his trumpet case. As he was readying his instrument, he caught a glimpse of PJ staring into the crowd. He seemed mesmerized, and when Mark followed his line of vision, he saw a young, fair-skinned, attractive lady with curly dark hair watching the stage. Mark blinked, then smiled. 

Eventually, Mark was ready, and he glanced around at the band. The band was looking back at him for guidance, and he tapped his foot for a moment to get a feel for the tempo. They nodded, and he mouthed the count-off. 

Initially, the song went slower than it usually was played, but that was alright. If done right, it would gave an impression of a swingy tune, even if it wasn’t as fast. That was what Mark aimed for, at least. He hoped it would ease the band away from what Jack had been forcing them through earlier.

By the time his lungs started to protest, Mark was painfully aware of Jack speeding the tempo up. Mark glanced around and caught Dan and PJ’s eyes. They, too, shared his panic at the song’s inevitable accelerando. There wasn’t much they could do when Jack was manning the drums, so Mark forwarded a very firm and sharp look to the wayward Irishman, telling him to stabilize the tempo.

They may as well have been fighting a futile battle. Jack took no notice of his bandmates’ discomfort, and only forged further in his trance-like rampage. There seemed to be nothing stopping him. They could only try to keep up.

The music and the sounds of the speakeasy suddenly faded, and Mark felt himself listing to the side. Everything began to spin and it took far too much willpower to stay upright.

“Ok, you need to stop. Come on, let’s sit down.” A strong pair of arms grabbed him around the waist and lifted him bodily down from the stage. His trumpet was plucked from his hands, and then Wade was supporting him to the nearest empty table: one of the small two-seaters closest to the bar.

“You’re staying here, whether you like it or not. No more working for the night.” Wade was beginning to sound distinctly like an older brother.

“Wade, I’m fine. I just need some water.” His voice sounded strange; it had a wheeze coming from deep inside his chest. When had his body become so weak he could no longer play the trumpet?

“No, you’re staying here. And I’m not going to hear any ‘and’s,’ ‘if’s,’ or ‘but’s’ about it.”

Mark wanted to protest, but he didn’t even have the energy to stand on his own two legs. He sighed and resigned himself to his fate while Wade sat next to him, obviously there to make sure he didn’t do anything.

Shortly after, Jack, PJ, and Dan came up to their bar. Jack, particularly, had on him a strong look of worry—and regret.

“Wilford! I’m so sorry! I-” Jack’s accent was pronounced, and he seemed to be fighting against his emotions. Wade opened his mouth to speak, but Mark tiredly cut him off.

“ Seán, it’s fine. Wade got me before I collapsed in front of the whole speakeasy. I’m not dead yet, either; so I think we’re fine.” Mark offered Jack a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No, you don’t understand, Wilford. You weren’t supposed to be overexerting yourself like this, especially so soon after your collapse.” Jack’s blue eyes were wide and earnest. “I was supposed to make sure you weren’t overdoing it again, but I was so caught up in the music that-” Jack’s words were jumbled up and slurred together in his ramble. Mark didn’t have the heart to stay frustrated at him—not that he had ever been, to begin with. 

Jack would have likely kept going, but PJ stepped in.

“I think Wilford needs his rest right now. You can apologize later, but right now, he needs to be alone.” PJ’s tone was sympathetic while he tried to herd Jack away from the bar. Jack looked like he wanted to fight, but he sighed, and, with one last apologetic look at Mark, returned to the other side of the speakeasy. PJ went with him, and Dan gave a weak smile before he followed suit.

Mark knew the rest of the speakeasy had their eyes glued on him the whole time; he’d worried everyone, especially the crew. 

Speaking of the crew… Mark glanced around the speakeasy, picking them out from the crowd. Tyler was doing his job, but his jaw was tight and his eyes were hard. Ethan looked just as tired as Mark felt, and he knew it wasn’t just from the work placed on him after his absence. When Mark glanced at Amy, he met her gaze just for a second before she jerked her head away. Clearly, she had been watching him. He could see her lips trembling.

Mark closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. He had fucked up again, so soon after he’d argued and cried with Tom. Oh god,  _ Tom— _ if he knew that Mark had almost collapsed again…

_ Yap. _

Mark was torn from his dark thoughts by a familiar, welcome sound. He looked up to see JP holding Chica, an apologetic look on the boy’s face.

“Err, Wilford?” JP looked at Mark, and then at Wade before his gaze came back to rest on the speakeasy owner. He placed Chica onto the floor then he rubbed his arms awkwardly.

“Look, I’m sorry if I made things worse with Jack. I only thought it would be funny, but if I had known…”

Wade’s expression softened, and he stood up and moved over to JP, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Kid, you don’t have anyone to blame except me. I was the one who made you give those cookies to Jack…”

While they were speaking, Chica waddled over to Mark, and he reached down to pick her up. He held her up and they stared at each other in the eyes before she gave a tiny yap _. _ Mark smiled faintly at her as he stroked her fur.

“You really are adorable.”

He hugged Chica close to his chest, and she started licking his hands. Even though his body was still weighed down with fatigue, his spirits lifted with every lick. 

Mark hadn’t noticed that JP and Wade had stopped talking and were instead watching the scene before them. Wade whispered to JP, “Let’s leave those two alone for awhile, yeah?” JP nodded, and Mark and the pup were the only ones at the bar.

Even with Chica in his hold, the comfort she brought couldn’t quite free Mark from his clouded thoughts. His mind wandered, and he found himself thinking about the things that could happen if Tom ever caught wind of the fact that he ran an illegal speakeasy. Most days he tried not to dwell deep into that territory—but had already stepped in the lion’s den. 

Mark’s biggest fear wasn’t that he was going to prison for owning and running an illegal speakeasy. No: it was how Tom was going to react if he found out. Would he be disappointed? God forbid, would… would he denounce Mark as his brother?

Mark wanted to stop there. He wanted to cease, and banish every dark, paranoid thought that was running through his head at the speed of crashing molasses. But he couldn’t help it—one thing led to another, and Mark was neck-deep in the vicious cycle of self-loathing.

Suddenly, the sound of a whimper snapped Mark out of his entangled thoughts. He glanced down and found Chica staring up at him with worry in those big, dark eyes—and that was when he realized he was holding her a little too tight. He shook his head and smiled weakly at Chica as he released the young pup.

“I’m sorry, girl. I forgot you were there.”

Chica only continued to look back at him with those adorable eyes of hers. Mark sighed.

“I was just thinking, and it kind of got out of hand…”

The golden retriever pup went back to licking his hands, and he chuckled.

“I don’t know why you would want to spend time with me.” He looked at her sadly. “I’m a mess of man. I’ve never made any good choices in my life, and now, here I am, on the verge of collapsing. Again.” Mark glanced to the side. “I don’t know how anyone puts up with me. I’m as stubborn as a mule.”

Chica had stopped licking his hands and now was nibbling at his arm as if in protest. It wasn’t that firm to the point where it would hurt, but it certainly caught Mark’s attention.

Mark sighed. “It’s true though. There’s nothing you can do that will change the truth of what I did.”

In response, Chica only bit down harder as if trying to get a point across. Mark chuckled again.

“Alright, alright. I won’t say any more about the matter.” Chica sat back in his lap and yawned, and Mark opted to play with her while ignoring the flow of time.

Finally, Mark’s exhaustion caught up with him, and before he knew it, he found himself dozing off, Chica in his arms, as the speakeasy’s night went on.

\------------------

“Look at those two. Aren’t they just adorable?” Wiishu crooned as she, Molly, and Amy were sitting at a table nearby. 

“And how!” Molly smiled. “I’m just glad Wilford could find something to occupy himself, so he won’t kill himself from overworking.” Thankfully, the whole speakeasy had the sense to leave Mark and Chica alone, even after Wade had left the man’s side. 

Amy tensed at Molly’s words, but said nothing as she continued to stare down at her glass of wine. Currently, she was taking a break, and she had opted to join Wiishu and Molly at their table. Her gloomy mood had not gone unnoticed by the other two, however.

“Something eating you, dear?” Molly was addressing her, and Amy looked up to see concern in her eyes.

Amy sighed. 

“Sorry, I’m just worrying over…” She didn’t have to specify—Molly and Wiishu immediately knew of whom she was talking. Their faces turned sympathetic.

“I understand. It’s difficult dealing with a man who hardly listens, isn’t it?” Molly sipped from her glass of wine, but her pale eyes were directed at Amy. 

Amy sighed again. “It’s not just that.”

Wiishu glanced at Mark. “He seems like a good man. Jack was beating himself up earlier over what happened; he said that Mark’s too good to him.” She shook her head. “Personally, I’m disappointed that the egg didn’t get called out for razzing up Jack.”

“I’m sure he was having a go with it by himself in the kitchen last time I checked,” Amy pointed out, “but yes. Mark’s good with other people, only…” Her eyes wandered away for a bit. “He’s not good with himself.”

Molly simply continued to sip at her drink, but her eyes were serious as she fixed her gaze on Amy. Wiishu nodded for her to continue.

“You’ve seen how he is with other people. He thinks everyone should be given a second chance, if not a third one. And yet, he’s never given himself a single chance, not ever.” Amy let out a shaky breath. 

There was a moment silence. Wiishu broke it when she whispered, “Has he ever opened up to you? Or to anyone?”

Amy shook her head. “No one, not even his brother Tom. He always bottles up his feelings—he’s said he thinks talking to someone would make him an inconvenience. And anyway, he prefers to be the one who is there for others, not the one who needs others to lean on.” Her voice trailed off.

Molly was looking past her, but she finished Amy’s lingering thought. “And so,” Molly sighed, “who will be there for him? You certainly chose a hard man to love.”

Amy nodded. “It’s like loving the moon. He gives so much light to everyone during their darkest hours, and he’s always there for them—and yet, none of us can ever truly touch him. He’s so close, and yet so far…” She buried her face in her arms, and her voice was barely above a whisper. “I love him so much. I just want to be able to help.”

Near their table, unknown to the three ladies, Mark himself was sobbing quietly. No matter what Chica did, she could not stop the flow of tears from his eyes.


	17. "Dog 'Doption Daily"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's Tunes:  
> On Green Dolphin Street - Miles Davis  
> Airegin - Miles Davis  
> Love Me or Leave Me - Lester Young-Teddy Wilson Quartet

_ Friday, September 21, 1923 _

_ After the recent destruction of the abusive dog racing ring, many dogs were left without homes, or people to love them. They were initially taken in by a helpful couple, but the two of them simply cannot provide for so many dogs, and so have opened up petting days to allow people to meet and be sniffed. _

_ This is indeed a wonderful thing, but there are less visitors than dogs, and an even smaller number of adopters. These dogs need families. They’ve been abandoned to the world, and the world is a rather cruel place. _

_ If anyone is interested in meeting this selfless couple, or the valiant dogs that survived the ring, then listen for the sound of barking on Howland Street. _

_ This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil. _

_ Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column! _

They were sleeping. 

Chica bumped them both with her nose, but they were well and truly sleeping. 

Well, she was bored. Chica squirmed out from between Jack and Wiishu and rolled onto the floor. It was time for an adventure.

It was easy to get out of the warehouse. No one noticed Chica as she made her way to the main doors, and then she just followed one of the really tall humans out.

It took a while, but eventually she found a familiar scent. It was from the place with the sad cuddler.

She decided to follow him.

He walked for a long time. At least, it felt like a long time to Chica, but she did have short puppy legs. 

When he went inside a building, the soft roar of a crowd was unavoidable. Whimpering, she darted after the friendly smell, following him into a series of much quieter rooms. Still, she had to walk under benches of some kind to avoid getting stepped on.

He was in different clothes now, and he seemed to be wrapping his hands. Why?

A new smell walked up to the friendly smell.

“Tyler, you ready for this? It’s going to be a tough one. He’s dominated his last couple of matches.”

“He’s got his weaknesses,” Tyler said calmly, flexing his hands. “And I know; I’ve been watching. It’ll be tough, but...” Tyler dropped one of his newly wrapped hands down, allowing Chica to sniff it and then give his fingers a friendly lick. “It’s probably best to have someone on hand. Whoever loses, we’re both going to be in pretty rough shape.”

“You’ve got this,” the stranger assured. “Hee is bound to lose.”

“We’ll see.” Tyler stood, removing his hand from Chica’s licking range. Then he was picking her up and carrying her towards a door. Then he was setting her down outside, in an alley of some kind.

Chica looked at him and whined. What was he doing?

“You didn’t like how loud it was when you followed me in.” Tyler gave her a scritch between the ears. “You’re definitely not going to like it in a few minutes when I get in the ring. Go on back to Jack.”

Then he closed the door.

Chica whined again, and pawed at the door, but it didn’t move. Wasn’t it supposed to open when she did that?

Maybe not. And clearly he didn’t want her around right now. She had to continue her adventure, then.

There were a lot of things to smell, though, so that wasn’t a problem. Flowers and rocks and people’s shoes and more flowers and  _ oh my goodness that thing flies _ and- she froze, then started to follow a new smell. It was kind of close to the smell of the kid who had played with her last night, the one who had brought her to the sad cuddler. Not the same, it wasn’t him, but it was similar. They must spend a lot of time together.

When Chica reached a neat garden on a quiet street (the garden had a few weeds, but they looked like they were supposed to be there—not that Chica had any idea what standards flower gardens were held to), the smell of the almost-friend disappeared among those of the plants and rocks and dirt.

That was okay. Chica could see the almost-friend now. She was sitting at a table, reading some book (not that Chica knew what that was, either) while one of the women from the previous night did something with papers herself.

“Hey, Molly,” almost-friend looked up from the book, “I decided what I want my next tattoo to be.”

Molly looked up. “Make an appointment with Emma, then.”

Chica snuck up behind the almost-friend, sniffing her quietly.

Silence for a while.

“Molly?”

“Yes, Brycelyn?” Molly looked up again, even as Brycelyn dropped her hand to give Chica scritches.

“Did you get to go to college?”

Molly shook her head. “I was already starting the Orchids. Besides, it wasn’t really an option.”

“You’re not that much older than I am.” Brycelyn pointed out.

“No, not really.” Molly set her papers down. “But I wasn’t about to leave you alone. Not after what happened. And again, I was running the Orchids already.”

Brycelyn tapped a stick of some kind on a notebook, getting Chica’s attention. That was a little stick. She could bite it.

“But, I mean, Wade moved in not too long after you took me in. You could have left me with him, but you didn’t. Why?”

Molly sighed, then took a sip of whatever drink she had. “Right after the war ended? Wade wasn’t doing very well. He could be responsible for himself, but he needed time. And you needed more than that.”

“And then you took JP in, and now we’re here.”

Molly nodded.

Brycelyn scritched Chica again. “Do you really think me having a college education will do me that much good? I’m just planning on helping you run the Orchids.”

“If you stay with the Orchids, you’ll be able to help a lot more with the skills and information you’re learning.” Molly sighed. “If you decide to leave one day, which is something you should never cut out of your options, then you’ll be better prepared to deal with that.”

Brycelyn scritched Chica for a few minutes. She was nice. These were nice scritches. Not as good as Jack’s, or the sad cuddler’s, but nice scritches anyway.

“Brycelyn?” Molly asked.

“Yes?”

“Keeters isn’t going to appreciate you scritching the dog.”

Brycelyn sighed and gave Chica a gentle push. “Sorry, pup. Thanks for letting me pet you.”

Chica whined softly, getting a sad look from both Brycelyn and Molly, but got up and walked off anyway.

The scritches had been nice while they’d lasted.

It was another hour or so of smelling new things and exploring the streets when Chica heard two exclaims of delight.

“Patrck, she’s been following us for a couple of blocks. Do you think she’s lost?” The young woman turned to her walking partner.

Patrck crouched and beckoned Chica closer. She went, and he gave her scritches.

Yes, scritches were good.

“I don’t think so.” Patrck tilted his head. “She looks healthy and she’s really friendly. I think she’s just exploring.”

Chica wagged her tail at him.

“Even if she’s lost, we can’t take her home with us.” Patrck stood. “I don’t think she’ll get along well with Ophelia.”

The young woman sighed.

“We’ll find a dog someday, Marie.” Patrck smiled at her. “And it’ll be great.”

Marie smiled back. “Deal.”

The two started walking again, and Chica followed. They didn't seem to mind.

“Alright, I'll head for home before it gets dark.” Marie turned to Patrck. “Be safe at work.”

“I will.” Patrck promised. “Just...” He trailed off for a moment, and he slumped slightly. “Be safe yourself. I don't know what I would do without you.”

“I'll be fine, Pat. You worry too much.” Marie gave him a wave and walked off into the beginnings of the sunset.

Patrck sighed, and his entire body seemed to be filled with sadness and... something Chica couldn't identify yet. It was a bit different than fear, though not by much.

Chica put her paw on Patrck's shoe and yapped.

“Oh, are you still following me?” Patrck asked as he began walking again. “I don't really need an escort, but thank you.”

Chica wagged her tail. He seemed happier when she followed him. She should keep doing that.

Eventually, Patrck came to a stop outside a building and gave Chica another scritch. “The chief doesn't like dogs inside, or I'd let you follow me. This is where we part ways.”

Chica tilted her head, then glanced to the door. But she could smell another dog. He was inside. Why wasn't she allowed in but the other dog was?

Or was someone breaking the rules?

Patrck stood and walked inside. The door was a bit slow to close, so Chica followed him. She had to figure out why the other dog was inside when she wasn’t allowed.

“Evening, Bob.” Patrck said cheerfully, not seeming to notice Chica slinking along behind him. 

Chica perked up. She recognized this smell from the night before. He’d been in the corner. Maybe he would give her scritches. (She had already forgotten why she’d come inside in the first place.)

“Evening, Patrck. How long do you get the night shift?”

Patrck half-groaned, half-laughed as he crossed his arms and looked at the ground. Chica ducked under a desk to avoid getting noticed. “A couple months.”

Bob winced. “That’s rough.”

“It could be worse.” Patrck shrugged, looking back up. 

“Yeah, well, I’ll take my day shift any time of the week.” Bob shook his head. “If you get a bad mob fight, I’ll come help out.”

Patrck sighed. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Last thing we need is more bodies on the street.”

Bob nodded.

That was when a yelp sounded. Both bulls turned to look behind the desk Chica was hiding under.

“Dog!” The word was a bit high-pitched, and grated on Chica’s ears. She whined softly.

Patrck and Bob both looked at her, and Patrck sighed and put his hand on the side of his face in a triangular sort of way. “How did you get in here, pup?”

Chica wagged her tail at him. He would help, right?

“The dog needs to go.” The voice ordered again, this time without the shrill tone. “You two, help me get it out of here.”

Chica turned, trying to find the source of the voice, only to see a uniformed man cowering in a chair at the desk she was under.

She yapped at him. Was he playing?

He screamed.

Probably not, then.

But Patrck and Bob were approaching her now. Maybe they wanted to play. They certainly seemed amused.

So. How were they playing?

She yapped again. Did they understand dog?

Patrck crouched and looked at her under the desk. “You going to come out, or am I going to have to come get you?”

Tag. They were playing tag. Finally, someone was going to play with her.

Chica yapped again, and took off, weaving between feet and under desks with absolutely zero grace. She slid into desks more than once, sending papers flying.

Shouts and laughter filled the air. Clearly, everyone was enjoying chasing her around. It definitely must be fun: lots of people were joining in on the game. Some of them were trying to block her path, like they were trying to make a maze, but she wasn’t in the mood for a maze. Besides, there was plenty of space to hop through legs and feet.

Finally, Chica managed to escape from the main bunch of people and dart down a hall. There were a bunch of closed doors, preventing her from dodging the people chasing her again. 

They were going to win.

There. There was an open door.

An open door with the smell of dog.

Chica darted inside the door, only to hear a startled gasp. Hands went around her, picking her up carefully.

“Woah, what are you doing here?” a kind voice asked. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Someone fell through the door and stumbled into the room, then pulled up short. “Oh, good,” Patrck breathed, “you got her. Thanks, Gar.”

“No problem,” the kind voice answered, shifting Chica so she could easily see what was going on. “I’ll take her out with me as I go.”

“Sounds good.” Patrck turned and left the office.

Gar bumped the door back to mostly closed with his foot, then walked over to one of the desks. He set Chica on the desk, then pulled his coat from the back of his chair. “Come on, Dante, it’s time to go.”

The other dog trotted out from under the desk, then stiffened and looked up at Chica.

Chica wagged her tail at him.

Dante looked at her for a minute more, then seemed to just shrug her off, sort of the way an adult would ignore an overexcitable child.

Gar pulled his coat on, then tucked Dante in under it, effectively hiding him from view—if you could ignore the rather corgi-sized lump. 

Ooohhh. Dante  _ wasn’t _ supposed to be here. 

Chica tilted her head. If Dante wasn’t supposed to be here, why was he? Had he come to play, too? No, he seemed content to simply follow Gar around.

With one arm cradling the Dante-lump, Gar reached and picked up Chica with the other, letting all of her feet dangle like he was about to drop her.

No!

Gar pulled her close at her whine, settling her next to the Dante lump, then wrapped his arms around both of them.

Gar sighed. “What have I gotten myself into.” He shook his head, then bumped his way out of the office.

Chica squirmed a bit—this wasn’t at all comfortable, and Dante was starting to squirm back, which made it worse—only to hear Gar curse softly. 

She looked up to see him scanning the main room, eyes wide. It was, admittedly, chaos. People were picking up papers that had been knocked off desks, rescuing chairs that had been upended… and a particular duo was leaning against the wall in gales of laughter.

“Patrck, I swear, if you get me caught...” Gar let the mutter trail off as he started slinking along the edge of the room.

Dante kicked Chica. She pawed at him, but it was difficult to do much with Gar’s coat between them.

“Stop,” Gar grumbled, “this is hard enough with you holding still.”

Chica gave Gar’s hand a reassuring lick.

Dante rumbled slightly, like he was holding back a bark.

It must have made for quite the sight, Gar tip-toeing around the edge of the chaos-filled main room of the police station, Dante squirming in his corgi-sized lump from under Gar’s coat, Chica squirming in her place on the outside of Gar’s coat, Gar desperately trying to keep a good grip on both of them, and all while being completely silent.

“I’m so glad MatPat left early,” Gar breathed as he pushed through the doors to the outside. “I would not have gotten that past him.” He awkwardly set Chica down, then slid Dante out from under his coat.

Dante instantly barked at Chica.

They were the same size, but Chica got the feeling she would lose if it came to a fight.

So she turned tail and scampered off. She didn’t move quite so quickly to miss Gar sighing, and the following “Dante.”

It was definitely night now, and the world looked different in the darkness. There were glowy puddles coming from the metal posts along the street. It smelled kind of different, too. Not too different, though. Chica could probably find her way back home.

Probably.

The wind was a bit chilly now, though, and Chica was getting cold. She had to find somewhere warm to wait a bit, and sit until either the wind died down or she felt comfortable moving again.

So she followed some men dressed in dark clothes into a nearby building. It looked official, and by that Chica meant it looked boring and drab (all official buildings looked boring and drab), but she didn’t really mind. Most of the lights were off, so nobody would see her.

Wait, why were there men going in if most of the lights were off?

Well, there was only one solution to this: she would follow them.

There were three distinct smells here, one belonging to each man. One of them acted like he was in charge, and another was definitely his brother. The third one didn’t smell related by blood, but clearly knew the other two well.

“You’re sure he’s not gonna be in for at least an hour, right?” In Charge asked as Third One kneeled against some large metal block, sounding genuinely concerned about this.

“He’s got some charity event today. He’ll be gone for hours!” Brother replied.

“Shut up,” Third One hissed. “I can’t hear what I’m doing.” He twisted the circle on the front of the block a bit.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Brother scolded. “Let me have at it-”

Third One stiffened. “Step off. Safes are my thing, we decided this.”

In Charge looked disappointed. “Both of you, clam up.” He looked around, shifting his grip on something shiny and sharp. “Just because Carpett isn’t here right now, that doesn’t mean the place is empty.”

Chica tilted her head. They didn’t seem to work together very well, but maybe they were just playing with each other.

Then a familiar-ish smell caught her attention. The sad cuddler. Well, almost. It was a little different. But! It was close enough. Maybe the sad cuddler was nearby. He needed more cuddles.

Chica yapped. She needed to get the sad cuddler’s attention. He needed to know she was here to give him more cuddles!

“What the-” In Charge spluttered. “Did you seriously bring a dog?!”

“Wasn’t me,” Third One said quickly, fiddling with the circle some more.

“Matthias, we don’t even have a dog...” Brother muttered.

“Well, J-Fred, find it.” In Charge—Matthias—ordered. “Shut it up before-”

The sad cuddler smell got close, and then the door opened to reveal—well, okay, not the sad cuddler, but someone who looked a lot like him. And smelled a lot like him. A brother? Maybe he would give good cuddles too.

“Hey!” Sad-Cuddler’s Brother exclaimed. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Third One bolted to a standing position. “Crap- RUN!”

Matthias stiffened. “Hey-”

J-Fred chose to ignore his brother. “I’m outta here.” He bolted, shoving Sad-Cuddler’s Brother into the doorframe hard enough to make him stumble.

Third One rose from his crouch and followed suit, but had to shove Sad-Cuddler’s Brother even more into the room to get past him, sending Sad-Cuddler’s Brother crashing into the large metal block. Chica could hear something snap, and she whimpered.

“It’s just a suit,” Matthias muttered, quickly following them out, “you guys are seriously-” He groaned. “Ugh, the boss is not gonna be happy.”

Chica gave her best high-speed wobble over to Sad-Cuddler’s Brother, who was holding his torso with one arm as he pushed himself up. “Hey! You can’t just-” 

Chica bounced on his foot, trying to get his attention. He smelled hurt. He couldn’t go running after the others. That would be bad.

“What...” Almost-Sad-Cuddler paused, gasping for air and holding his torso tighter. “Gotta check the safe. Make sure they didn’t take anything.”

Chica bounced on his foot again, even as he moved slowly, like he was in pain. 

“What… ?” Almost-Sad-Cuddler looked down at her, clearly confused. “Why… a dog?”

Chica yapped at him, wagging her tail. Was he going to give her scritches now?

Instead, he moved his foot from under her. “No collar… a stray, then.”

Alarm swept through Chica’s body at those words, and she scrambled away from him so he couldn’t grab her. Nothing good ever came from people who said that.

He took a step towards her, and she bolted, following the path the three men had taken out the door and out of the building.

By the time she found her way back to the warehouse, she could barely lift her paws and put them in front of each other. How was she supposed to get in? It was long after dark now.

Chica pawed at the doors, whining softly. She didn’t have the energy to bark. She just wanted to sleep.

It took maybe ten minutes, but the door opened to reveal Jack. He glanced down at her and muttered something she didn’t catch, scooping her up and looking her over. “No injuries, right?” He ran his hands along her fur, seemingly searching for something. “No injuries.” He pulled the door closed and carried her up the stairs, ultimately placing her next to the sleeping form of Sam. “Need to get you a collar and a leash so you don’t wander off like that again.”

Chica cuddled into the child, letting their breathing even out her own. It had been a long day of adventure. No matter how much Jack was muttering as he left, it was time for sleep.

So she slept.


	18. "Deceptively Delicious"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's Tunes:  
> To the Moon and Back - Giovanni Tornambene, Alfredo Bochicchio  
> Nel blu dipinto di blu - Domencio Modugno  
> 

Friday, September 21, 1923

_ Rarely am I privileged enough to stumble upon a respectable dining establishment in this day and age, what with Mother Prohibition wagging her finger and giving the old glories of the past a good, swift kick out the door. Between The Parker’s House being forced to close the doors of its famous men’s bar and the ever distinguished Marliave being raided by the bulls, it’s a wonder a man can find a fine meal in this otherwise great city of ours. Yet it was by sheer luck I caught wind of one such haven. A true oasis of excellent service and expertly crafted cuisine in an otherwise arid desert of tea rooms and quick service. _

_ Ramo d’Olivo, an Italian-American establishment on the corner of Salem and Prince in the North End, is one of the finest current examples of what the American dining experience should be. The atmosphere is subdued but delightfully cultured. Tokens and trinkets from across the Atlantic and Mediterranean line the walls, including several authentic paintings to feed the soul as well as the stomach! All the tables are lined with pristine white cloth, and plush upholstery fill up the booths, not a crinkle or hole to be seen. In the evenings the restaurant can be found bathed in candlelight; a prime location for any romantic rendez-vous! _

_ The staff, mostly Italian or some variation thereof, are all dressed sharply. Ironed slacks and starched shirts coupled with neatly combed hair and a fresh shave showcase how waiters and hosts alike take pride in their appearance. Very energetic and attentive; lively, always quick to come running at the slightest gesture. All very fluent in both Italian and English, which of course is a must! Why, the only thing missing is a bit of grade A bottle service. _

_ But by far, it is the food that places Ramo d’Olivo leaps and bounds ahead of the competition. The simple appearance of their menu should not be taken lightly, as the range of dishes available is truly astounding. With so many choices, I’m certain I won’t grow tired of their fare for quite some time. Yet for my very first foray into the hefty realm of Italian cuisine, I was obligated to go with the favorites. _

_ Minestrone soup, of course, was a must. Without a doubt, it was simmered long and slow on the stove with all the tender care of an Italian grandmother. It certainly puts Campbell’s to shame! Unfortunately, their baked stuffed lasagna was unavailable—it seems I had come on the wrong day to experience that delight. I conceded to ravioli bolognese, which was sublime. You can tell the ravioli were handmade, along with the pasta itself! And the bolognese was meaty and hearty; no skimping about with excess sauce here! _

_ I also ordered the Italian sausages calabrese, with Ramo d’Olivo’s house French fried potatoes. The spicy sausages, simmered in a fine Italian red wine, set my tastebuds happily ablaze with every tantalizing bite. The smell alone as the dish was carried out to the dining room was enough to make my mouth water, and the potatoes did not disappoint. Truly, Ramo d’Olivo has mastered the art of frying our humble potato just right to achieve optimum crunchy exterior and soft, fluffy interior. _

_ As a critic, I am more greatly inclined towards tasting over sheer consuming. An unfortunate waste of good food indeed, but I was determined to sample two of the restaurant’s pricier dishes before caving to the devilish temptress of dessert. The antipasto, while perhaps a bit brinier and more bitter than most Americans would prefer, tickled the tongue and whetted my appetite for yet another main course: scallopini of pork tenderloin a la Marsala. Fantastic dish, best of the night hands down, and definitely something Ramo d’Olivo can stake their claim on. If only the same outstanding alcohol they used in their dishes were available for direct consumption... ah, but I digress. _

_ I finished off the night with a nice slice of old world ricotta pie. Tangy and tart, with a fluffy center to send me into a quick slumber once I’d managed to heave myself back home. I plan to dine there many more times in the near future, and with such an affordable menu as two dollars or less, my wallet will be none the lighter for it! Highly recommended for those seeking fine food, finer service and a classic look. _

_ -The Culinarian _

PJ Liguori, underboss of the Liguori Family, criminal of all sorts, passionate musician, and a bit eccentric in all the best ways, was almost never nervous. Sure, he experienced joy and sadness and worry and stress (he frequently experienced them all in a single night at Freddy’s), but  _ nervous _ ? It had been years since he was truly anxious.

And yet, as he walked into Freddy’s to tune his bass, nervous was exactly how he felt.

There was simply no denying it. No matter how deeply he breathed his shoulders remained tense, his legs a bit shaky, and he didn’t dare trust his voice for anything—resulting in a cordial nod to Mark as he made his way over to the musician’s stand. And, he noted with some dismay as he began preparing for the night, his fingers still tender from Wednesday and Jack’s (admittedly impressive) drumming speed, his hands were shaking.

Mark gave him a concerned look, then moved up to the stage. Of course he’d noticed. Almost nothing got past that man when it came to people’s emotions.

“What’s up?” Mark asked.

PJ glanced up from his bass and sighed. It was pointless to try and get away from Mark without giving some sort of real answer, but he certainly couldn’t say everything. Especially since he didn’t want to dump a load of stress on Mark when he still looked so worn down.

“The last couple of nights... there’s been a very intelligent and very beautiful girl here.” PJ looked back at his bass. Sophie. Her name was Sophie Newton.

“I saw you watching her on Wednesday.” Mark put one hand to his chin, as if thinking. “You’ve talked to her, then?”

PJ nodded. He had. Several times across Wednesday and Thursday night. And he’d gotten the most preposterous idea on the way home Thursday.

“Why so nervous, then? You’ve already broken the ice with her.” Mark returned his unwavering gaze to PJ.

“I...” PJ let out a breath, trying to calm his voice. “I’m planning on asking her to supper tomorrow.”

And she wasn’t Italian. This was bad. Why had he already fallen far enough for a girl he’d barely met to risk  _ everything _ to have just one meal with her? If he were seen with her... oh, he’d be in so much trouble. The rules were very clear on that.

“Ah.” Mark gave PJ a comforting clap on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine. And let me know if she agrees, and I’ll make sure your part here is covered tomorrow night so you don't have to worry about rushing back.”

PJ let out a long breath, trying once again to steady his breathing and his hands. “Will do, Wilford.”

Assuming the godfather didn’t find out about this and order PJ killed.

No, he wouldn’t dare have PJ killed. There simply wasn’t enough time to train someone to replace him, not with the godfather’s health the way it was. They’d spent a lot of resources on PJ, too, to keep him alive in the past, and killing him now would be a waste.

...Probably.

Hopefully.

Mark returned to whatever he was doing before, leaving PJ to tune his bass in peace, at least for a minute. Though it was really only about half a minute before Jack walked in. The rest of that minute was taken up by Mark pulling Jack aside and sort of nodding in PJ’s general direction as he said something.

Jack moved so fast he practically teleported to next to PJ, grinning broadly. “What’s she like.”

PJ glanced up at him. “You haven’t seen her?”

“I’ve been a bit occupied looking at my own choice bit of calico, Peej.” Jack laughed. “I haven’t seen anything.”

PJ squinted at him a bit, but chose not to comment on that. “She’s intelligent. And beautiful.” And not Italian, so incredibly dangerous for him. “Fantastic overall.”

“Does she know how ‘bent’ you are yet.” Jack’s grin grew even more, if that was possible.

PJ sighed, actually dropping his hands from his bass to give Jack the full effect of his long-suffering look.

Jack just grinned more.

“She’s aware I play with you.” PJ finally said, returning to his task. “And that I talk to you. That’s pretty weird in itself, so I think she knows.”

Jack laughed.

Everything was normal for a while, and playing the regular selection of songs really did help calm PJ’s nerves. At the very least, he was able to make his hands stop shaking quite so much.

And then Sophie walked in. 

Jack gave a none-too-subtle nod in her direction, getting an exasperated glance from PJ in return, then called a break as the song ended.

“Go.” Jack urged, practically shoving PJ off the stage and towards Sophie.

PJ’s sigh got stuck in his throat, and he looked frantically around for something,  _ anything _ , to drink to dislodge it.

Why was this so hard? It was just talking to a person. PJ did that all the time.

PJ pretty much ran the entire Liguori Family in Boston. Why was he so terrified about talking to a stunningly beautiful and intelligent English woman?

Well, he just sort of answered his own question there, didn’t he.

Mark walked by and handed PJ a drink, then nudged him towards Sophie’s table. PJ gave him a distressed look, but Mark just made a ‘get on with it’ gesture before continuing his rounds.

PJ looked back to Sophie’s table, only to realize Molly had taken a seat there and the two were talking.

He cursed under his breath.

Jack walked past him, bumping his shoulder before drawing back a seat.

“Look, go, or I’ll drag her over here, and that’ll get everyone’s attention.” Jack leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his drink, eyebrow raised. 

PJ sighed, then downed the rest of his drink in one go—a mistake that left him more than a little short of breath—gave Jack a glare, and started walking over to her.

Sophie glanced at him, then smiled.

Oh. Oh dear. He hadn’t been expecting that.

His legs were shaking again by the time he got up to the table. He did make sure to stand a respectful distance away; making Sophie uncomfortable was a sure-fire way to have this blow up in his face.

“Good evening, PJ.” Molly dipped her head slightly. 

“Good evening, Madame Foxglove.” PJ dipped his head back, trying to keep his face calm, even as his brain was screaming at him to not be so close to her, that if he got too close she’d somehow smell the Family on him and she’d have Wade drag him out back and beat him to death with nothing more than a brick. “Good evening, Miss Newton.”

Sophie smiled more, and PJ was sure his entire body wobbled at that. Why did she keep smiling at him? Did she realize what it did to him?

“Evening.” Sophie turned slightly in her chair to face him, still smiling pleasantly.

PJ let out a soft, slightly nervous chuckle. “Uh, Miss Newton, I’ve rather enjoyed the conversations we’ve had here over the past few nights, and, uh...” 

Molly smiled and leaned back in her chair, but remained silent.

“There’s this really nice restaurant north of here, and-” PJ had to resist the temptation to swallow (why was his throat so dry?) as he spoke- “I was wondering if you were willing to join me for a meal there tomorrow?”

There. The words were out. He’d done all he could. The godfather himself could come walking through the door and find PJ here, breaking the rules, and he wouldn’t even care. It was done, and PJ didn’t have to think about it any more.

Well, except now he had to worry about what Sophie was going to say.

“That sounds lovely.” Sophie’s smile grew.

PJ just about collapsed into the nearest chair. Yes. Great. Excellent.

“I’m absolutely ecstatic that romance is blossoming here,” the unmistakable drawl of Wilford Warfstache came from behind them, and PJ glanced over his shoulder to see Mark standing there with one eyebrow raised particularly high, “but PJ’s presence has been requested and I was sent to fetch him.”

PJ gave a small bow to both Sophie and Molly, then turned and followed Mark to Molly's regular table, where Wade was sitting and watching Molly with a expression so gentle you could never even guess he'd killed people.

“Go ahead and have a seat.” Wade didn't look away from Molly.

PJ dropped into a chair, still feeling light from actually succeeding in asking Sophie out, then gave him a curious look.

“How’d it go?” Wade finally glanced over, though he still wore that soft expression.

“I’m not dead.” Who knew how long that would last, really. But it would be great in the meantime.

Wade chuckled. “You sure? You looked pretty nervous.”

PJ slumped in his chair. “It was that obvious?”

Wade nodded. “Maybe I just know what to look for, but yes. Yes it was.”

PJ groaned. He then wondered how many people had been watching that scene unfold.

Well, at least nobody would suspect him to be a part of the Family after that. Being nervous was too out of character.

Small blessings.

“Oh, get on with it and tell him,” Mark said as he walked past, heading back to the bar.

Wade gave Mark a pleading glance.

Mark ignored Wade.

“Tell me what?” PJ sat back up. Wade had his full attention now.

Wade shifted a bit, like he was nervous. “Uh, don’t… don’t tell Molly, but-” here a grin split across Wade’s face- “I’m planning on proposing to her tomorrow.”

In that split second PJ’s heart soared at the news, then plummeted to the earth. Wade proposing to Molly—fantastic news, and PJ was delighted for them. But…

PJ tightened his fists under the table. He would  _ not _ think about that right now. Instead, he pulled out the most convincing grin he could manage.

“That’s fantastic.”

Wade’s smile only grew. “That was it. That was all I wanted to say. Don’t let her know. You should probably get back to playing.”

PJ laughed softly as he stood. “I won’t spoil the surprise.”

As he walked back to the musician’s stand, his mind went to the meeting he would be holding in a few hours. If all went well, there would be no wedding day for his friends.

\-----

“We have enough information for the hit.” Yamimash’s voice was soft as he walked into the room, trailed by Matthias, Amanda, and Luna: the small bundle in Amanda’s arms.

PJ smiled at the sight of Luna, though his stomach had clenched at Yami’s words. For the sake of the family, he would soon have to order Wade and Molly’s deaths.

Luna burbled softly, and the godfather opened his eyes and looked over in the infant’s direction. 

Scoundrel. He was supposed to have been sleeping.

The godfather held Luna and murmured to her in Italian while Yami gave both Matthias and PJ the information he’d gathered last-minute, which turned into Yami and Matthias debating the best places for the ambush to actually take place.

Eventually, PJ managed to get a turn holding Luna (honestly, the infant stole the spotlight whenever she was in the room and absolutely nobody minded at all), though she was asleep by then.

Could PJ really order the deaths of his friends like that? Wade and Molly had been nothing but kind and generous in how they treated PJ and everyone at Freddy’s. They were good people—at least, no worse than PJ himself was, and he liked to think he was a good person.

Besides, Wade was proposing. They had so much happiness to look forwards to in their lives, and to order the hit would be taking that away from them. What kind of friend was PJ if he did that?

Luna gave a tiny sigh in her sleep, and PJ looked at her once again. She was so small, only a month and a half old, but there was just something about her that made the future seem bright.

...Just like knowing Wade was proposing made the future seem bright.

PJ internally cursed, returning his attention to the conversation between Yami and Matthias. He would blame missing any information on Luna being adorable and not being internally torn between duty and friendship.

“It looks like the best time to strike will be in the evening, then,” Matthias mused. “There will be fewer people around then, and it’ll be less conspicuous. Plus, they might be more relaxed and easier to take down at that point in time.”

“I’ll leave the technique to you,” Yami said simply. “How many of your men will you need to take?”

PJ wondered if he was doing friendship wrong. Surely a good friend would be speaking up, trying to keep Wade and Molly from being killed. 

Luna made a tiny noise in her sleep, instantly gaining back PJ’s attention. 

She was pretty much family. PJ was basically her uncle. Being a good uncle would mean making sure the world was as safe as possible for her, and that she wouldn’t have anything to want for.

He couldn’t do that with the Family as weak as it was.

“... ey, Bryan, Elliot, Andrew, and Gunner.” Matthias folded his arms confidently. “The six of us should be enough, even for the biggest names in the Orchids.”

Yami nodded, and then both of them were looking at PJ. They were waiting for the go-ahead, he realized.

PJ glanced down at Luna. They needed to be strong for her. She, and the future of the entire Liguori Family, were more important than friends.

Without any hesitation, PJ spoke.

“Do it.”

The Liguoris would regain their strength, and no friendship would ever get in the way.

\-----

PJ would always love the atmosphere at Ramo d’Olivo. It was just so full of joy and energy and a rather deep-seated sense of comfort. Sure, bad things had gone down here in the past, but so had good things. It was, for instance, where he’d met Jordan Maron for the first time.

And since he hadn’t been forbidden from returning after that eventful day, he was guaranteed that none of the staff would tell anyone else about Sophie.

Because it was Saturday evening, and he was here, Sophie actually on his arm, escorting her inside. 

It was better than he ever could have imagined already.

The host smiled at him, and waved PJ and Sophie to the stairs in the back. He’d been here so often they no longer bothered to escort him—and while, at first, he’d thought that a touch unprofessional, he’d grown to appreciate the gesture of familiarity.

As they wove their way between the tables PJ couldn’t help but notice how Sophie was looking around (subtly, of course, because she knew better than to gape openly). His lips quirked up at the corners.

“This place is quite something, isn’t it,” he supplied.

“It’s beautiful, it what it is,” Sophie breathed. “Oh, I know that artist…” Her head turned as they passed a painting on the wall.

His heart fluttered for a second. Of course she knew the artist, he thought with a smile, even though the painter was little-known, from a small Italian city… of course she would know.

PJ dared to place a guiding hand between her shoulder blades as they entered the narrow staircase. The last traces of the day’s light illuminated the stairs, aided by the new electrical lamps. 

They exited onto the rooftop deck. It was empty, just as he’d asked. The sunlight, a wonderful deep amber, was cast about through the rooftops and glinting off windows of the surrounding buildings. As they walked to his favourite table the light played against her skin, setting it aglow.

“I do think this is the most beautiful sight I’ve seen all day.” Sophie’s eyes were wide as she took in the scenery.

PJ smiled as he pulled out a chair for her. “I’ll have to disagree; that honour belongs to you.”

A faint flush coloured Sophie’s cheeks, but she did nothing but smile as she took her seat.

This night was shaping up to be perfect.


	19. Amorte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's Tunes:  
> Parla piu piano - Roberto Alagan, Yvan Cassar, Paris Symphony Orchestra  
> [Translated Lyrics](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/parla-piu-piano-speak-softly.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Computer users: you can hover over the Italian words for a translation (the first time they appear only)  
> Mobile users/people who don't have a mouse: translations will be in the end notes.

_ Saturday, September 22, 1923 _

_ As many of you may know, at the recent Commemoration service, a mystery sniper sniped a second sniper during Associate Justice Thomas Fischbach's speech. Up until now, bulls had not released any information on the dead man or on the state of the ongoing investigation. _

_ The dead sniper has been hesitantly identified as a member of the local Russian mob, but his name was not released. No family has come forth to claim the body. _

_ Bulls are still searching for the person who sniped the sniper. They have identified that this mystery sniper is a true expert with a steady shot, but that is the extent of the information they would release. One can only assume they are able to tell this by the fact that the single shot hit the dead man in the eye, exacting swift and unavoidable death. _

_ Strangely enough, this killing style is remarkably similar to that of an infamous assassin in England from before the Great War, who killed many men with a single shot to the eye. It could be a coincidence, but we’re not ready to write it off as such. _

_ We will continue to update on the Case of the Mystery Sniper as we and the bulls gain more information. _

_ This has been an day in the life of Dan and Phil. _

_ Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column! _

Jack didn’t mind taking on routine jobs to keep the mob safe, and he didn’t mind having someone come along on the more dangerous ones to make sure he didn’t end up dead himself.

But as he and Link slipped through alleys and across rooftops and basically did their best to make sure nobody could follow them, he really wished he’d picked someone else to stand guard while he’d shot the most recent minor politician in his own office.

Jack hadn’t had anything personal against the man, and neither had Link, but he was one of the people who worked frequently under Tom—and worked frequently against the McLaughlin Boys. Tom had taunted every criminal in the city with his speech at the Commemoration, and while Jack didn’t dare kill him for what it would do to Mark, it was time to taunt back.

He did feel a bit bad for whoever was going to find the body in the morning, assuming bulls weren’t already swarming the scene.

But really he was concerned that Link being harder to hide was going to make him late to Freddy’s. It wasn’t Link’s fault, it had been Jack’s idea that Link come along to make sure nobody tried to sneak up on him while he took the shot from a rooftop of a building down the street.

With PJ out on his date, Jack being late would be bad news for the band.

Jack cursed softly, readjusting his rifle strap so it would stop digging into his neck. Running made the thing jostle too much.

“Let’s slow for a bit.” He looked over at Link as he spoke, getting a nod in return. 

The two dropped their pace to a walk rather than a run, but neither spoke again until they’d climbed through a broken window of an abandoned building and ducked out of sight.

“That was exciting,” Link finally said, a bit short of breath.

Jack let the back of his head drop against the wall he was leaning on and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That was one of the easiest getaways I’ve had in months.” He sighed, then stood. “Let’s keep moving. We’re still too close for safety.”   


Link nodded, automatically falling silent as they began their weaving through alleys and rooftops and abandoned buildings again.

“Well,” Jack finally muttered as they stopped on another rooftop, “I’m officially late.”

Link gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Wilford will understand.”

“What am I supposed to tell him, though?” Jack glanced around, once again making sure they weren’t being followed. It was getting more difficult, now that night had fully fallen, but he did have a well-trained eye for these things.

“Tell him your overly talkative neighbour wouldn’t shut up and you couldn’t think of a polite way to get away.” Link’s grin was still easily visible in the darkness, though.

Jack chuckled, returning his attention to the streets below. He paused. There were people down there. Two of them, and they seemed to be holding hands.

Jack tilted his head as Link came up beside him. “What are they doing here?” Jack murmured.

“Who?” Link asked, dropping the volume of his voice appropriately. “Do you recognize them?”

Jack nodded. “Madame Foxglove and Wade.” Link knew enough about Freddy’s and the Orchids to know what that meant.

Link paused, letting his gaze linger on the couple, while Jack went back to scanning the streets. Something about this felt off.

There was someone trailing Wade and Molly.

Jack let out a soft curse, then crouched and pulled his rifle into his hands.

Link gave him a surprised look, but crouched to make himself a smaller target. “I thought we wanted them alive for now.”

“We do.” Without them, Freddy’s would shut down, and the hub of information it provided the McLaughlins would go with it. Otherwise, Jack would have killed them a long time ago, before they’d had time to become friends.

How many people were following the two Orchid leaders? Jack watched the street for a minute, trying to count. Six. He could count six. All in well-tailored suits.

Two of those six moved over to the building Jack was on, and the faintest whisper of Italian made its way up to him.

“Noodles,” Jack growled.

Link’s expression hardened. “Go, then. I’ll watch your back.”

Jack quietly made sure his rifle was loaded to capacity, even as Link pulled out his pistol. 

Two of the Italians had clearly pulled out guns of some kind, and who knew what the two under Jack were doing.

Well, hopefully the first noodle going down would be enough of a warning for Molly and Wade to take action themselves.

They’d all split up now. Three of them had ducked into a small grass yard, hiding from the view of Molly and Wade, and the fourth remaining one was moving up the street behind them, like he was planning on joining them.

Nope.

Jack looked through the scope and took the shot.

The noodle crumpled, Wade and Molly bolted, and the remaining Italians froze for a split second, clearly stunned by what had just happened. 

Jack took a shot at the middle of the three hiding in the small yard. He went down silently, but something told Jack he wasn’t quite dead yet.

He would be by the time Jack was done.

The one on the left was reaching towards the one Jack had just shot, shouting something unintelligible in what was probably Italian.

So Jack lined him up and shot him too.

Unfortunately, the one on the right had grabbed the one on the left and pulled, resulting in the shot missing the fatality Jack had wanted. 

It did, however, result in screams of pain and more panicked shouts as the one on the right pulled the one Jack had just shot out of view. And someone ran from where they were frozen against the building Jack was sniping from, clearly going to help.

Too bad.

He went down with a strangled scream, and there was only one panicked voice now, calling “Gunner” over and over again. 

Jack allowed himself to grin. It wasn’t the term he would have used, but he could forgive the noodle for using the wrong word. Jack had, after all, just sent four bullets into the lot.

“Is it over, then?” Link asked, his soft voice unusually loud in the sudden quiet.

The remaining Italian at the base of Jack’s building darted across the street fast, briefly disappearing from sight before emerging with the one on the right, the one on the left hanging limply between them.

Not dead yet, then. But, judging by how much blood he was trailing on the ground, he would be soon enough.

Jack glanced down the street to where Molly and Wade had hidden. The two were long out of sight by now. Good.

“Yeah.” Jack lowered his rifle. “Time to check out the noodles they left, see how well I sauced them.”

The two made their way to the street, then checked the bodies one by one. The fourth one Jack had shot was clearly dead, and Jack couldn’t be bothered to move the body from the middle of the street. 

The first one he’d shot was also clearly dead, crumpled body making it look like he’d been reaching for something when he’d fallen.

Jack left Link to check the bodies for clues (Link’s idea, not Jack’s) and walked to the second one he’d shot, only to pause in surprise.

This one wasn’t dead yet.

Jack cautiously crouched next to the noodle, trying desperately not to get any blood on himself. He could hand his rifle to Link to take back home, but it would be just about impossible to explain away blood when he walked into Freddy’s.

The noodle was clearly dying. Already, blood was trickling from his mouth as he coughed the stuff up.

“An..rew.” The noodle didn’t seem to notice Jack there, too caught up in the pain of incoming death, and Jack felt a pang of pity. “El’t...” A cough and a burble of blood, clear agony in every fading breath. “Mmm.... Matth....”

And the burble stopped.

“Poor sap,” he muttered.

Jack stood and looked himself over to make sure no evidence of the triple, maybe quadruple, murder he'd just committed showed.

Then he turned to Link. “Come on. Let's get back.”

\-----

The night was fantastic so far, in PJ’s opinion.

After getting settled into their seats, they’d been approached by a snappily dressed waiter. “ _ Buonasera, signore e signora. Benvenuto a Ramo d’Olivo.  _ I hope the evening has been treating you well. May I bring you something to drink?”

Sophie glanced to PJ, giving him the silent go-ahead. He swallowed anxiously. What should he order? Wine? No, couldn’t because of Prohibition. Damn. Wine was the go-to romantic beverage, right? Especially for Italians. What else could he order for them? Juice? That was so childish.

The waiter, seemingly catching wind of PJ’s floundering, spoke up once more. “ _ Signore,  _ might I offer  _ tu e la signora _ some  _ Donelli Vini?  _ It is sparkling red grape juice, and quite close to wine. Perfectly legal, I assure you.”

The tension that had been building up in PJ’s chest abruptly deflated. He sent the waiter a relieved smile. The man was no stranger to PJ, as he’d been his waiter several times in the past. Silently, he vowed to leave him a very generous tip on his next visit. “ _ Meno malle.  _ Sounds the bee’s knees to me,  _ grazie. Due bicchieri, per favore. _ ”

_ “Si, signore.” _ The waiter gave a polite nod and left their table, likely to fetch a bottle. They already had two delicate glasses, along with polished silverware and intricate serving plates. Between them gleamed a white candle, its flame flickering gently in the evening breeze.

PJ beamed. He really couldn’t have chosen a more romantic setting. Sophie was looking about with the barest hint of an enchanted, delighted expression. The sight of it very nearly made his heart melt inside of his chest. She was gorgeous. All creamy white skin and dark, bouncy curls. Her red lipstick became more prominent when she smiled and thoughts of it leaving imprints on his cheeks, maybe even his own lips set his melty heart into a dizzying tizzy.

“...PJ. Are you listening?”

“Huh? What? Oh. Y-yeah, yeah of course! Sorry, I just got… distracted.” Crap. The things this woman did to PJ were almost frightening, but he couldn’t get enough. Especially when she laughed.

“I see. I was just complimenting your Italian. Is it your first language?”

PJ blinked in surprise. “Oh, no. English is, I just… learned Italian too at a young age. You know how family can be.”  _ The Family in particular,  _ went unsaid. Even new recruits were expected to either know or learn  _ some  _ Italian. Keeping the language alive meant keeping the traditions tied to it thriving.

At that moment, the waiter returned. A pristine white towel rested over his arm, and he presented the bottle as if it were actually wine. PJ knew it was protocol, but he liked to think the man did it to help him out some more too. Keep up the facade of a normal, romantic evening.  _ “Tu vino, signore.” _ PJ gave a nod to confirm the bottle was acceptable, and the waiter skillfully removed the cork. It hissed gently, bubbles fizzling as some was poured into PJ’s glass.

Technically, unlike wine, there wouldn’t be much point to tasting it. But Sophie was shooting him an amused smile, so he decided to play along. Delicately pinching the stem of the glass between his thumb and fingers, he gave the deep red liquid a few good swirls. He brought it to his face, breathing in the scent, and heard Sophie giggle. The sound pulled up a smile from him before he swallowed a mouthful of the juice to taste it.  _ “Bene.” _

PJ gave another nod, and the waiter proceeded to fill his glass. He then filled Sophie’s, before delicately wiping the rim of the bottle and straightening once more. “And may I have the pleasure of bringing you a  _ primo  _ this evening?”

Sophie exchanged another glance with PJ. “You claim to be a regular here, right? I’ll try whatever you suggest.”

PJ felt his nerves creep back up again, but gave a tight nod. He turned back to the waiter. “Ah, the minestrone,  _ por favore. _ ”

“Excellent choice,  _ signore. _ ”

The waiter leaves them again, and PJ is just picking up his glass when Sophie speaks up. “We should do a little toast.”

PJ narrowly avoided upending the contents of his glass all over the tablecloth. “Uh, a toast?”

He’d set Sophie to giggling again. “ _ Si,  _ a toast. That’s how you say it, right? When you want to say ‘yes’?  _ Si? _ ” She picked up her own glass.

PJ swallowed. Hard. It was one of the simplest, smallest words in Italian. It sounded a bit clunky and clearly out of place on her tongue. Yet the language in her voice, PJ was certain it had to be one of the most beautiful things he’d ever heard. Or maybe that was just her voice in general. Either way, he longed to hear more. He gave a nod. “Uh, yeah.  _ Si.  _ You got it right. I guess we could do a toast. To… to us?”

Sophie chuckled, pushing her glass forward. “To us.”

PJ’s happy grin managed to flicker back onto his face, and he clinked his glass to hers.  _ “A noi.”  _ At her confused look, he had to force down a rising heat in his cheeks. He coughed a bit into the rim of his glass, forcing his gaze off to the side just so he could think straight. “It, uh, it means ‘to us’. In Italian…” he mumbled.

“Oh! I see.  _ A noi,  _ then.” Sophie’s smile was sublime while she sipped from her own glass, looking like some exquisite royal straight from a fantasy. The elegant black dress she’d chosen to wear was stunning, bringing out the brightness of her skin, her lipstick, even the deep brown of her eyes. In his own dark suit, PJ was beginning to feel as if he’d worn too many layers. He resisted the urge to tug at his shirt collar.

He was going to need more “wine.”

Their soup arrived, and the waiter refilled PJ’s glass with an amused twinkle in his green eyes. They dug in eagerly, as it smelled absolutely delicious, and Sophie was the first to comment.

“Oh, this is just swell! Perfect for a cool night, don’t you think?”

Something big and almost painful fluttered happily in PJ’s chest, and he grinned crookedly at her. “Ha, yeah. Perfect…”  _ She’s perfect… _

The waiter returned a few minutes later.

“And will you be having a  _ secondo  _ tonight?”

This time, when PJ glanced over at Sophie, she had the menu in her hands and appeared willing to order herself. Luckily, he already knew what he wanted. “The ravioli bolognese,  _ por favore. _ ”

“Of course.  _ E tu, signora? _ ”

“Ah… the… housemade manicotti…  _ por favore. _ ”

PJ’s heart skipped a few beats. He didn’t even catch the waiter’s response as he stared at her, awed, and it took a little gesture from her delicate hand to bring him back to reality. “Huh?”

“PJ, your menu.”

_ “Signore?” _

Oh. The waiter was extending his hand, Sophie’s menu already tucked away in his arm. PJ definitely felt a little heat enter his cheeks that time while he handed over the menu.  _ “Scusami.” _

“Not at all,  _ signore.  _ Shall I refill your glasses?”

“That’d be perfect,  _ grazie. _ ”

The waiter walked off, and PJ shot Sophie a hesitant glance. She probably thought he was an idiot. However, she was merely smiling at him, that same light-hearted amusement glimmering in her eyes. His heart melted all over again, and he managed a sheepish smile back. “So… really trying out the Italian tonight, huh?”

“You could say that.” She was giving him a look. Oh.

_ Oh. _

PJ definitely needed more grape juice.

When their second course arrived, it was Sophie who suggested sharing plates. “I don’t eat Italian often, and I’ve never tried either of these dishes. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see what bolognese tastes like… especially homemade by actual Italians.” She chuckled a bit awkwardly, and it was her turn to look sheepish.

PJ was surprised, but he readily accepted the idea. “That sounds great, actually. I love the manicotti here. They make their own pasta from scratch, and all the sauces- they even source cheese from Italy, when they can. It’s ducky.”

Sophie sent him a brilliant, relieved smile at that. PJ decided he would pluck the very moon from the night sky above them, if it meant having that smile turned his way just one more time.

At first, they just snagged a bite or two off each other’s plates with their own forks. Sophie hummed happily after her first bite of ravioli, her eyes crinkling from the swell of her cheeks as she beamed. “Delicious. How’s the manicotti?”

“Fantastic, as always.”

However, a few bites in, Sophie speared a chunk of manicotti and reached out to offer it to PJ. His blue-green eyes widened almost comically, and she laughed. “Oh come now, it’s just a bite. Hardly Boston’s biggest scandal. Won’t you humor me?”

_ Always.  _ PJ thought as his gaze softened. Hesitantly leaning in, he accepted the bite, his heart performing backflips in his chest when Sophie smiled again.

“How is it now?”

PJ didn’t have words. He found himself lost in those deep, brown eyes while he chewed. His mind scrambled to find some comparison; something to bring them back down to Earth, make them tangible and real. Molten chocolate? They were sweet enough. Dirt? No, no, that was not a compliment. Polished cherry oak, perhaps-?

He forgot how to swallow, lost as his mind was, and abruptly felt the manicotti become caught up in his throat. He coughed, gagging a bit, and lightly thumped at his chest with his fist while he desperately tried to swallow it down.

Alarm crossed Sophie’s beautiful face. “PJ?!”

He shook his head, trying not to scare her, lifting up his free hand in a gesture of “wait, it’s okay, I’m alright”. After several more harsh thumps and attempts to clear his throat, the lump of cheese and pasta finally made its descent into his stomach. PJ drew in a sharp, deep breath, letting the following exhale wheeze out of his lungs. Choking on manicotti. What a way for the heir to Boston’s Liguoris to go. Now he  _ knew  _ Sophie must think he was some imbecile-

“Are you okay?” There was only worry shining in her brown eyes, though, as she watched him settle back down into his seat. Her delicate hands gripped at the edge of the table.

She was genuinely concerned for him. PJ felt heat rush to his cheeks again and coughed once more, hands fidgeting awkwardly in his lap. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry if I scared you or anything…”

Sophie tilted her head some, but then that dazzling smile curled back onto her ruby red lips. “It’s funny. I’ve seen guys get choked up around me before, but never quite like this.”

PJ’s gaze snapped back to her, stunned, but then he laughed. She joined in, and because the deck was free of other patrons they allowed themselves the volume they otherwise would have stifled. She’d just made a joke. A completely cheesy jab at PJ’s plight, and if he hadn’t already been smitten to the stars and back with this woman, that would have surely sealed the deal.

PJ insisted on ordering them a ricotta pie for their  _ dolce.  _ They shared it as well, though this time they kept to their respective forks. The moon was quite high in the sky by then, and their candle had lost some of its wax. He was certain they’d nearly downed a bottle of grape juice between the two of them, but thankfully there were none of wine’s side effects. Both were relatively clear-headed—and giddy from something else entirely—while they wrapped up their dinner on the quiet hush of the restaurant’s deck.

“This must be the sweetest pie I’ve ever tasted,” Sophie stated when they’d just about finished.

A reply was spilling from PJ’s lips before he could halt himself. “Maybe, but it has nothing on your personality.” Instantly, he went the deepest shade of red he’d gotten all night. Oh, crap. Oh god. What had he just said? That was so incredibly forward! And awful! There was no way she found that flattering, not with the stunned manner in which she stared him down. He’d just compared her to  _ pie,  _ he’d probably offended her-

Sophie laughed. She laughed, and even though she was likely laughing at  _ him,  _ the sound was no less music to his ears. He anticipated some form of rejection or ridicule, as that was all he deserved at this point. PJ knew he’d been an absolute mess all evening. Instead, the first words from her mouth were,

“You’re cute.”

PJ had never in his life found it harder to breathe, not even when he’d been choking on that manicotti.

He walked Sophie home after paying the bill, just like a true gentleman would. It was late, anyway, and he didn’t dare leave her side on the streets of Boston. She took his offered arm, and they walked together mostly in silence. At one point, Sophie spoke up, lifting her free arm to point at the sky.

“Do you know any of the constellations?”

“Huh? Oh. Uh, no. No, I never… never studied that sort of thing, sorry.”

She giggled. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not going to judge you. I was just curious. I think I might recognize a few of them, but I don’t know the names…”

“Well, um… that one kinda looks like a big spoon.”

“Yes! I know, but I don’t think that’s quite right.”

“Big ladle then?”   


Sophie gave more of a laugh at that, nudging him gently and triggering another crooked grin. “I think your mind’s still on our dinner.”

“Could be. Did you like it?”

“Oh, I loved it. We should go again sometime.”

PJ felt warmth rush up from his stomach into his brain. “A-again?”

Sophie was blushing softly on his arm, and it only made her look more beautiful in his opinion. “I mean… if you want to. I just thought…” She looked up at him as they reached her doorstep. “I had a lot of fun with you tonight, PJ. I wouldn’t mind doing it again. If… that’s alright with you.”

A second date. Sophie was asking him out on a second date! Crap, wasn’t PJ supposed to do that? Well… too late to change things now. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about rejection. 

“Of course! I m-mean… yes, of course. I’d love to take you out again. Maybe next time, we could… we could go somewhere you want to go. Anywhere!” He didn’t think that was how the etiquette went, either, but PJ didn’t care. All he wanted was to keep seeing Sophie’s smile, and hearing her laugh.

She did the former, pulling politely away from him but not breaking their eye contact. “Okay, PJ. Next time I see you at Freddy’s, I’ll let you know.”

PJ smiled himself, feeling breathless and elated all over again. “Okay. Great.”

They stood there like that in front of her home, nothing but the sound of crickets and the surrounding city to fill in the silence. Yet again, it was Sophie who finally made a move, breaking the apparent trance they’d fallen into.

“How do you say ‘good night’ in Italian?”

“What? Oh. It’s…  _ Buona notte. _ ”

“Well then, PJ.” Sophie lifted her hand, offering the back of it to him.  _ “Buona notte.” _

PJ delicately grasped her palm, bending as he lifted the hand to his lips. He pressed a kiss there and swore he caught the faintest sound of her breath hitching. Letting her hand fall, he straightened back up. “ _ Buona notte,  _ Sophie-”

A kiss to his cheek left him stunned and choking on the last syllable. Wide-eyed, he watched a blushing Sophie quickly duck through her front door, leaving him alone on the stoop. He had no idea just how long he stood there in shock, but eventually he came back to his senses with a little shake. Gobsmacked, he raised fingers to his cheek, noting the light stickiness there.  _ Her lipstick.  _ His breath caught in his chest.

_ I love her. _

About an hour later, PJ was collapsing face-first onto his bed. He was still fully dressed in his nice suit and shoes, but he couldn’t be bothered to remove them just yet. Not with Sophie’s lipstick still lingering on his cheek, and the smell of her perfume fresh in his memory. He gathered up his pillow into his arms, pressing his face into the plush material with a giddy sigh.

_ I love her. She likes me. She wants to go on another date! I thought for sure I’d ruined the whole night but no, she’s perfect. She’s gorgeous. I can’t wait to see her again… . _

The night had gone so well, PJ’s mind had never trailed from Sophie for even a moment. All other events and thoughts had been kept at bay by his starstruck heart, and he swiftly regretted his lapse into ignorant bliss when his door was suddenly thrown open.

PJ bolted upright, scrambling to turn and see what the commotion was about. “Who-”

“Boss- PJ! It was a setup, they had a sniper, we got completely spruced! Andrew, Elliot, J-Fred- they all got bumped off, and Matthias is in the hospital, PJ; they knew we were coming. They had to. They got some damn torpedo and…”

It was Gunner. Gunner, who was still talking, but PJ was too focused on the blood. Soaked through Gunner’s nice suit, dripping onto the floorboards, smeared on Gunner’s hands and face. Gunner, who was barely  _ twenty,  _ for god’s sake. He looked to be in shock, as he rambled on about how badly their ambush had backfired. Three of their men dead. One hospitalized. Matthias had lost his brother. Slowly, PJ felt his stomach clenching—not with the butterflies from earlier, but from the cold hand of fear.

It was times like these, with one of his best men standing in the doorway, dripping crimson, PJ wished he could just be like other Italian guys his age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Buonasera, signore e signora. Benvenuto a Ramo d’Olivo. = Good evening, sir and madam. Welcome to Ramo d'Olivo.  
> Signore = Sir  
> tu e la signora = you and the madam  
> Meno malle = similar to 'thank god'  
> grazie. Due bicchieri, per favore = thank you. Two glasses, please  
> Si, signore. = Yes, sir.  
> Tu vino, signore = Your wine, sir  
> Bene = good  
> primo = first course/appetizer  
> por favore = please  
> Si = yes  
> A noi = to us  
> secondo = second course/main course  
> E tu, signora = And you, madam?  
> Scusami = Excuse me  
> dolce = third course/dessert  
> Buona notte = Good night


	20. "Deliberate Detective Death"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It gets updated with every new chapter!
> 
> Today's Tunes:  
> Blue in Green - Miles Davis  
> Solitude - Duke Ellington  
> 

_Saturday, September 29, 1923_

_The body of Private Detective Chris Widin was found on the front steps of the Courthouse early this morning. The autopsy revealed he had been shot excessively, and there were indications of a struggle. Very simply, he had been forcefully dragged to some forgettable alleyway, filled with the lead of several different guns, and, finally, dropped at the entrance to the Courthouse._

_Records indicate Det. Widin had been working off information he’d received from Det. Matthew Patrick a few months ago, shortly before the latter began training Det. Garuku Bluemoon. While we were unable to contact either of those two on such short notice, we were informed the information involved Mir and the Russian mob._

_Considering the death of the Russian sniper at the Commemoration, and the knowledge that Det. Widin had been working on something involving the Russian mob, it’s clear they want to send a message. Considering Associate Justice Fischbach was speaking at the time, and that Det. Widin’s body was deposited so prominently at the Courthouse, it is also clear to whom they’re sending that message._

_Associate Justice Fischbach has not been available for comment._

_This has been an day in the life of Dan and Phil._

_Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column!_

This was it; this was the day. That familiar ball of excitement and apprehension was flaring up as Brycelyn walked briskly along, nearing the building. She’d be getting her next tattoo inked today, and she was certain it was perfect. This particular one had been something she’d wanted for years; it was an idea she’d had ever since she’d grown up around the Orchids with their elaborately decorated skin. And now that she had found herself a solid place in college, it was going to happen.

Blackery Tattoo Parlour was one of the best places to get marked up in Boston. She could have walked into any one of the other studios, but none of them could come close to the style and skill Emma boasted—or so every painted Orchid claimed, and she was going to take their word for it.

The door bells chimed as she walked in. Emma looked up from her newspaper, and welcomed her young customer with a smile. 

“Hello, Brycelyn. What brings you in here today? Taking a break from studying?”

Brycelyn laughed. “You know why I’m here, I made the appointment last week,” she said lightly, catching Emma’s wink. She took out a piece of paper and unfolded it, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I’m here to get my next tattoo.”

“Ah, let me take a look.” Emma took the paper and observed the design. There were note values, clefs, dynamic markings, and other musical notation all elegantly arranged to make up the shape of a guitar.

“This is actually quite nice,” Emma commented, “This is definitely one of the more beautiful designs I’ve seen in awhile.”

Brycelyn smiled shyly. “That’s why I chose Boston’s best tattoo artist to do this justice.”

“Hey, compliments don’t make the tattoo free—but they are well appreciated.” Emma smiled and welcomed Brycelyn into her chair to get started.

“So, how’s college going for ya nowadays?”

“It’s going fine as it stands. It’s nice of Molly to enroll me to begin with, and to pay for my tuition. It is still hard for me to see the point, though; even after she’s explained it to me.”

Emma tilted her head.

“She probably wants what’s best for you. A college education will give you a step up in this world, where a lot of people will try to push you back down. You’ll learn skills you can’t get anywhere else, and learn a few things through experience. Things will be harder—but a of what you’ll go through will also be easier than if you were thrown out into the big, wide world. And I doubt Madame Foxglove or Wade would want that. They just want to give you the opportunities they couldn’t have.”

“Yeah, I know all that already, I just… I don’t know. But those two treat me as if I was their own, and that’s comforting.” Brycelyn smiled warmly. “They feel like home.”

Turning away to hide a small, sad smile Emma arranged the equipment on the side table. “Hold onto that for as long as you can. You never know when you’ll find yourself far from anything familiar, and people just waiting to send you back where they think you belong.”

“Is England not-”

“Everything’s gone belly-up there.” They were both quiet for a few moments.

“So... what’s been going on with you, Emma? Hear anything new?”

“Well, you know who the Faceless are, right?” At Brycelyn’s nod, Emma continued. “One of their teams has been getting more reckless, lately. They’re taking on jobs they weren’t assigned, or so I heard. The team’s been around for a good few years—but rumour has it, since the Russians have been losing hold, the Faceless are allowing their younger teams to spread out into that empty space.”

“Minx was in the Faceless, right?”

“Yes, she was.” Emma chuckled a little as she fiddled with the little machine. “They’re the most elite assassins around. If I remember correctly, your friend Minx was an expert with poisons,” she said as she glanced up, an eyebrow quirked. “Where do you think Madame Foxglove got all that knowledge about her deadly plants?”

Emma grinned at Brycelyn’s politely surprised expression. “Looks like you’d already guessed it. Anyway, I know Minx is practically like an aunt to you, but don’t go messing with any other Faceless. Just… stay away from anyone wearing a full-face mask.”

“Full-face…? Wade was telling JP about someone at this poker game at Kjellberg’s two weeks ago. This man, with a full-face white mask. He didn’t talk much.”

Emma paused in her preparation. “That’s peculiar. Why would Kjellberg invite someone with a mask?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Brycelyn shrugged. “Wade doesn’t make sense when he’s drunk.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Of course he doesn’t. That would be too helpful, now wouldn’t it.”

Brycelyn sighed. “I got you some useful information.”

Emma tilted her head as she settled on a stool next to Brycelyn. A familiar electric whirring started up as she began to work on Brycelyn’s new tattoo. “Useful information.” Her voice was soft, as if she was thinking. “You know what? I’ve got some of that for you.”

This time, the surprise on Brycelyn’s face was genuine. “What?”

“Not too long ago I let myself into the noodles’ main building. Their headquarters.” Emma glanced back at the design, as if referencing it. “You know, just to take a quick look around. Since it was so late—or rather, so early, I suppose, I didn’t think there’d be many noodles around to catch me… which I was wrong about, by the way.

“But I did find something quite interesting. Their big bad boss is bedridden. Dying, and slowly—because a quick death would be too good for this linguine bastard.”

After a moment of shocked silence Brycelyn nodded. “I’ll make sure to tell Molly.”

Emma glanced up, the worry evident in her green-hazel eyes. “Make sure the information doesn’t get out.” She grimaced. “They’ll know who did it, and they’ve got good blackmail on me.”

“But you told me.”

“Well.” Emma took a deep breath. “Captain Sparkle-britches made me promise not to tell the McLaughlin Boys. But he didn’t say anything about a little Orchid miss.”

\-----

“Tom. No.” Mark folded his arms and glared at his older brother, who had been trying to sneak out of the house and into work. “You’re hurt. You’re not going back into work until a doctor gives you the OK.”

“I can’t be out of work for that long,” Tom groaned. “I have so many things waiting for me back at the office. Why did you have to come to my house?”

“You made the mistake of telling our mothers.” Mark shook his head. “Of course they told me.” He leaned forward a bit. “Though I know you didn’t tell them everything. You couldn’t have hurt your ribs that bad by whatever bull you spouted at them.”

“I tripped.” Tom held his arm to his ribs. “On a carpet.”

“Right.” Mark raised an eyebrow.

Tom grumbled something under his breath.

Mark raised his other eyebrow. “Well, come on. Let’s get you checked out.”

“I’m not going to the hospital.”

“Yes, you are.”

It took a bit of arguing, but eventually Mark won through sheer stubbornness alone.

“I still think this is unnecessary,” Tom protested weakly as Mark carefully steered him through the doors of Massachusetts General.

“I’d rather find out nothing is really wrong, than not do anything and have something bad happen.” 

Tom sighed, finally relenting.

They came up to the receptionist at the front desk, and they didn’t buy Tom’s excuse, either. After signing in, they were appointed a room for a checkup by one of the doctors. Thanking the receptionist, they began their trek through the hallways.

In the narrow confinements of the hospital hallways, melancholy memories (ones that Mark familiarized himself with all too well during his brief moments of solitude) sprang up in his mind again. However, this time, these weren’t just memories. This time, he was here. 

These hallways- they were the exact ones Mark had grown tired of seeing during his earliest adult years. It wasn’t too long ago when Mark had had his accidents, but there were times when it felt like decades. Seeing these walls again, this floor—it felt like he was opening a wound that had never properly healed. He was walking down an endless corridor; down this unpleasant memory lane that he would rather be closed off from his mind forever.

“Mark?”

Mark blinked himself out of his tangled thoughts, and found Tom peering at him, worry creasing his forehead. There was concern and understanding in those brown eyes. Tom’s hand rested lightly on his, and it was then when Mark realized he was gripping Tom’s a bit too firmly. Mark bit his lip.

“Sorry…”

Tom waved off whatever Mark was about to say. 

“It’s fine, Mark. Don’t worry about it.” Tom was closely peering at Mark, and his features softened in sympathy. “You know, you could go home. I can manage myself from here.”

“No, I’m not going to do that. Don’t worry about me—let me worry about you.”

“It’s not as if the doctors are going to perform surgery on my ribs. I’ll be fine.”

Mark shook his head. “They could, though; who knows what they’ll do. Besides, I’m not risking turning my head away for you to bolt.” Mark’s face was grave, despite the twinkle of humour dancing in his eyes. Tom sighed, and the two continued on in silence.

It seemed the only difference between this visit and the one years ago (when Tom had brought Mark in after his first collapse during the draft) was that their roles had been swapped.

Eventually, the brothers came to their designated room. The silence settled into the room while Mark helped Tom into his seat before dragging a chair up next to him. Mark noticed each glance Tom sent his way, but neither of them made a move to address the other.

Then, “Do you want to talk about that day?” Tom spoke quietly, and his words were guarded.. Mark knew that he was only being gentle with the subject; it was touchy, and he was grateful for it. However, Mark still couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. He shook his head, and Tom said no more.

The two stayed like that until they heard light footsteps in the hallway. The two men looked up to see a young woman with copper-brown hair in a nurse’s uniform standing at the doorway. 

“Jason Fischbach?”

The nurse’s voice was gentle and bright, but there was a certain firm confidence behind it that warned anyone crossing her to reconsider. Mark recognized her immediately as Bob’s wife, Mandy.

Tom nodded, and Mandy studied him.

“They told me what happened, but I’m not sure if I heard correctly. What did you say cracked your rib?”

Tom spluttered.

“I… u-uh… tripped? On a rug?”

Mark shared a look with Mandy before he shook his head. Tom turned slightly red in the face.

“Right. May I see your ribs?”

Tom paused, but he nodded. Mark didn’t bother to look away while his brother removed his suit and tie and unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his gently sculpted body, a faded souvenir from his time served in the military. 

He watched as Mandy carefully felt around the fracture. Even as Tom winced slightly from where Mandy pinpointed the area, Mark wasn’t worried. He knew Bob well, and he trusted Mandy enough to know that Tom’s in good hands. After Mandy had him stand behind the x-ray and wrote down on her clipboard, she pursed her lips.

“The doctor is going to be with you shortly. Please stay in this room in the meantime.”

The two brothers nodded, and Mandy turned on her heels before walking out of the room. Tom sheepishly tried to pull his half-open shirt together, and Mark snorted. Tom just looked at him.

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Mark.” Tom’s face was still tinged with pink as he affixed his brother with an incredulous look.

Mark shrugged. “I’m just telling you. You have nothing to be sheepish about.”

Tom gave him a disbelieving look, before it transitioned to a knowing one.

“And you do?”

Mark grinned. “Of course not, oh brother of mine! It’s just simply not my time to show off my gains. However, those flappers that flock to our restaurant? You know as well as I do that they only come to witness this!” Mark stood, and raised his left arm in angle while he flexed his right arm, giving him the image of a superhero. Tom snorted and shook his head, prompting Mark to flash him the biggest grin he could muster, a grin that was, perhaps, all too forced. Mark finally sat down again, crossing his arms with only a hint of a bittersweet smile on his lips.

“Of course, that’s the only thing I might as well be good for anymore.” 

Tom bit his lip, but said nothing. Silence filled the room once again—until heavy, abrupt footsteps alerted the two brothers. 

“Jason Fischbach?”

At the doorway, there was a middle-aged man in a white coat. His nametag read “Dr. Edward Lawrence”. He spoke with a smooth and professional tone, indicating years of experience.

Tom nodded and smiled, but Mark quietly trained his eyes on the stranger. His gaze never left the doctor as he took his own time carefully examining Tom, just as Mandy had done. 

While Tom and the doctor made small talk over the course of the examination, Mark made sure to occasionally chime in, if only to show graciousness. Even when off-duty from the position of manager of two respectable establishments (well, certainly one was respectable), he made sure to treat people with hospitality. He would never dare infringe upon the code of manners while in the public, especially not with a stranger responsible for his brother’s wellbeing. 

The two brothers made eye contact, and Mark could pick out the exasperation in Tom’s eyes. Behind Dr. Lawrence’s back, Mark shrugged. It wasn’t like he could help it; testing people was somewhat of an unconscious habit Mark had built up over the years.

Since Dr. Lawrence was, at the moment, responsible for his brother’s wellbeing, Mark made it his imperative to read into his every action and word. His eyes never left the doctor.

A part of him knew he was overreacting, just like the overprotective younger brother he was. He mentally kicked himself for putting a stranger through the wringer for something they didn't do—but what the doctor said next didn't exactly ease his anxiety.

“Sir?”

“Hmm?” The doctor faced Mark, shifting all of his attention to him.

“Perhaps it would be best if your brother and I were to have some privacy, to discuss his current health?

“I-I’m sorry?” Mark blinked, not quite sure if he heard the doctor correctly.

“Mark, please.” Tom was looking at him almost pleadingly. “I’m going to be fine. It's just for a few minutes, while we talk. Nothing will happen, I promise.”

“I…” God, he hoped his face remained neutral. It wouldn't do to get riled up right now. 

He repeatedly shifted his gaze from the doctor to his brother. It seemed like Tom was ready to say something, while the doctor was merely looking at him patiently. There was a long moment of silence before Mark finally relented.

“Alright. I’ll step out for a moment.” Tom let out a relieved breath while Dr. Lawrence gave Mark a grateful smile. 

“Thank you, Mark.”

“And don't worry, little brother; it won't be long.” 

Tom flashed Mark a reassuring smile, and Mark felt his nerves relax just ever so slightly. He nodded before stepping back out into the hallway, the door closing behind him with a click.

After a minute or two of waiting he couldn’t stand still any longer. Mark began to wander down one hallway, then the next, picking out his own path rather than retracing their steps. He forced his thoughts away from Tom, sitting in that room without him—but this proved to be a mistake, because those darker, older thoughts invaded the empty space.

Mark began to walk quickly, taking long strides. It was only after the fourth turn around a corner he realized he’d been unconsciously walking to his old room, and the familiar halls only served to magnify these old feelings he could have sworn he’d forgotten long ago. 

He stood there, at the end of the hallway, in an entirely different ward than the one he’d left Tom in.

And there was his room.

The shadows in front of his door were thicker than the rest of the hall. Who would be waiting in there for him? He couldn’t see either of his mothers right now, with their overbearing worry and stifling chatter. What if the nurses had wheeled his father in? Mark didn’t want to see his forced smile and poorly hidden disappointment. 

Mark walked closer. The hand he held out was shaking. 

He placed his hand on the doorknob. Someone was crying, inside his room. Who…?

He opened the door, and stepped in. A man was lying in the bed, quietly weeping. Was that him? Was he watching himself? He looked over, and for a moment he thought it was Tom sitting there at his bedside—but no, because Tom wasn’t back from the war… and this man’s hair was too brown, and his skin was too pale-

“Mark?”

-and that definitely was not Tom’s voice. Mark blinked, then blinked again.

“...Maron? Jordan Maron?”

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Mark didn’t answer; still disoriented he gazed around the room.

Jordan cleared his throat and cocked his head to the side. “So, why are you here at the hospital? You didn’t collapse again, did you?”

Still at the door, Mark looked back at the seated man and waved off his words. “No, just here with Tom. He cracked one of his ribs, and I’m taking care of him.”

A fleeting look of realization passed over Jordan’s face, then disappeared before Mark had time to fully dwell on it.

“Ah.” Jordan turned back to the person on the bed, the pensive look returning to his face. Mark shuffled his feet, catching Jordan’s attention again.

“Is it alright if I come in?”

Jordan paused, a horde of emotions flickering through his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, go ahead.”

As Mark approached the bed, he began to recognize the man’s face. His messy, unkempt dirty-blonde hair clung to his forehead, and his cheeks were tracked with tears. Even though his eyes were closed the tears still leaked from the corners, and an occasional heart-wrenching sob burst from the man’s chest. And (he didn’t know how he could have missed this) there was clearly only one leg under the pristine white sheets.

“Matthias?” Mark’s voice held amazement and disbelief.

In an instant, Jordan whipped his head towards Mark. Suspicion and the clear threat of violence practically radiated off of him.

“You know him?” It was said far too forcefully to be a simple question; Mark knew he had to answer carefully. He held up his hands in defense.

“Woah, woah- easy there! He came to my restaurant with his wife, for their anniversary. I have nothing against him!”

When Jordan didn’t respond and his eyes stayed on him, Mark continued. 

“He and his wife were wonderful guests. I made sure that their dinner went as smoothly as it could. And from the sound of it, he clearly loved his family. He wouldn’t stop rambling about every one of them.” 

To his relief, Jordan sighed and relaxed. 

“Yeah, he really loves his family. It’s what keeps the man in daylight.” Jordan seemed to be smiling a bit.

“So, why is he in here? Is everything ok?” He didn’t want to mention the obvious loss of the leg..

A blanket of silence descended upon the room—save for Matthias’ crying. Jordan bit his lips while he stared at Matthias “Well, speaking of his family… ”

Heavy realization dawned on Mark, and he turned to Matthias with sympathy. He spoke quietly, solemnity lining every word.

“Did his parents…?”

Jordan shook his head. “No. His brother, Joey.”

Mark pursed his lips, but this time it wasn’t from aggravation or worry. 

“It’s been rough. This was a pretty heavy loss for him. For all of us.”

Jordan spoke the last part so quietly that Mark almost didn’t hear him. But, thinking back to his father, he understood the pain of family loss. Even though he believed he had lost the right to connect with his father, his absence still gnawed at him every day. He never knew how hard such a loss was—until his father’s (admittedly gradual) death hit him like a truck. 

It was why he was so overprotective of Tom. While he doubted that his and Tom’s relationship couldn’t have been as strong as Matthias’ and Joey’s (at times, they argued too frequently, and he knew they were distant— he wouldn’t open up to Tom for goodness sake!) the fact remained that he couldn’t bear to lose him. That was too much for him to think about.

Seeing Jordan’s initial aggression and Matthias’ state, it all felt far too relatable and real. He had to do something.

“Can he hear us?”

Jordan shook his head. “He’s on a heavy dose of morphine, so I doubt he could. Still recovering from the surgery.”

That didn’t stop Mark from kneeling next to the bed and gently grasping his hand. Jordan tensed, but Mark ignored him. He spoke in a deep, low, and comforting voice; the same tone he used for his more pensive customers at Freddy’s.

“Matthias? Can you hear me?”

Even though Matthias didn’t give a sign of acknowledgement and instead continued to cry, Mark pressed on.

“Listen, I’m sorry about your loss. The pain of losing someone that close to you is hard to bare. I’m not going to deny that it will be easy to simply ‘get over’ something like this, but you have good people who’re going to make this an easier road to travel.” He glanced over to Jordan. “Keep moving forward; I’ll save a table for you and Amanda.” Mark stood, and part of him wanted to believe that Matthias’ weeping had lessened..

“I see you haven’t changed a bit. Still have all the great advice, just as you did back then,” Jordan said with a grateful smile.

“I just listen. And I say what needs to be said.” Mark shrugged.

Jordan shook his head. “Only you would brush off something like that.” 

Mark waved off his words. “I don’t know why everyone makes a big deal about it.”

Jordan chuckled before he fixed Mark with an inquisitive look. “What made you care so much about Matthias, though? You said he ate at your restaurant; is that it?”

Mark rubbed his jaw. “I thought he was a good man. I’m not kidding when I said he wouldn’t stop talking about his family, and I love people who are passionate like that. But you’re right; it’s not just that. Anyone who means a lot to PJ, means a lot to me—and he must mean a great deal to PJ.”

Jordan froze, unable to fully hide his confusion. “PJ, huh? Really tall, lanky, kinda not your normal Joe?” 

“Yeah, that’s him. You know him?” Mark asked, curious.

“Yeah, you could say that.” Jordan crossed his arms.

“Well, if you see him, can you tell him not to worry about coming tonight? Tell him to take time off for however long he needs. I’ll see you around!” With that, and a friendly wave, Mark left the room.

A few steps down the hallway he leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes. He would head back to Tom’s room soon; first, he had to take a moment. After what could have been many minutes, he glanced back at the door. His old door, to his old room.

The shadows were gone.


	21. Criminal Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Take a look at our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, every time!
> 
> Today's tunes:
> 
> Bock by Bock - Wes Montgomery  
> Bluebird of Delhi - Duke Ellington

_Massachusetts Police Department_

_Case No. 57386_  
_Complaintant: Det. Matthew Patrick_  
_Crime: Burglary and Trespassing_  
_Date: 9/18/23_

_Details, including time and place, name and address of victim, and description of suspect:_

_Det. Matthew Patrick reports at 8:15 AM this date that some time between 10:00 PM Sept. 8th & 7:35 AM this date someone stole the following items from Det. Patrick’s home address._

_The perpetrator may have been present in the home when Det. Patrick returned at 6:00 AM this date. Prior to Det. Patrick’s return, his wife Mrs. Patrick was asleep during the crime. Mr. and Mrs. Patrick became aware of the crime when Mrs. Patrick awoke at 8:00 AM._

_There was no Evidence of forced entrance. Present at the scene was a child’s toy bus and a banana marked with symbols. No further Evidence was collected. No suspect was seen._

_1 ceramic statuette, size approx. 15” height, resembling a rabbit and painted gold, Val. $21.00._  
_Multiple pieces of jewellery, including a silver brooch set with opals, gold bracelets, pearl necklace, Val. $32.00._  
_Fine dining china, 4 plates, 4 saucers, 4 cups, white with floral pattern, Val. $19.00._

_Case reported by: Det. Garuku Bluemoon_  
_Value of property involved: $72.00_

“Fifty eight, fifty nine... sixty! One of the best bank heists in a while, boys!” a man crowed. He slid the last stack of bills into the pile and picked up a white mask, the engraved greek symbol catching the dim light of the room.

“Well, Ohm, it could’ve been better if _somebody_ knew how to shut up for two seconds,” another snapped. He stood up from the wall and circled around, glaring at the second man at the table.

“Vanoss. Consider this: if heists weren’t so boring, and you babies actually knew what you were doing, I wouldn’t have had to talk so much—now would I?” This man was still wearing his mask: pale and off-white, and streaked here and there with fading red paint. “Why don’t you talk to the team palooka here, who strayed from the very carefully thought-out plan.”

“Hey, any scratch in that bank was fair game. If I have to put the teller at gunpoint just to get some extra cash, so be it. And anyway, the face they made was hysterical. Made the whole thing perfect.” The third man at the table chuckled, the sound distorted behind his red mask. “Besides, it’s not like the Faceless let us keep the usual haul from their assigned hits. I figured, why not get as much as we could?”

“Amen to that, the cheap bastards!” A hand slammed against the table, and several stacks of bills toppled over, scattering across the floor.

“Del!”

“What? We know how much cash we got! Just stuff it somewhere, and let’s go celebrate. I haven’t had a good drink in…” Del took a moment to count under his breath, ticking numbers off finger by finger. “...nearly twenty-four hours. That’s fucking criminal!”

“You are a criminal, idiot,” Vanoss snapped while he made an attempt at gathering up the money.

“Okay, but the type of criminal who likes rolling in dough and bumping off people for the right price—not going dry! So come on, let’s get a drink. There’s a speakeasy I’ve been wanting to try out.”

“Is it that Freddy’s joint I keep hearing you go on about?” Ohm grumbled, helping out Vanoss. The pair passed a majority of the bills to the man in the red mask, who was kneeling near a safe and stacking them inside. The remaining money, they pocketed.

“Bet your ass it is. It’s _the_ speakeasy in Boston right now. Everybody goes there! Orchid, Liguori, McLaughlin, what have you… or so I’ve heard, anyway. I bet it’s _jumping_. Let’s go! The night is young, and we’ve got way too much money to burn!”

“I could go for a drink,” Vanoss admitted, “what about you guys? Toonz? Ohm?”

“Eh, what the hell? We just robbed a bank. Let’s go commit a few more government sins.” Toonz nodded, the light glinting off his red mask.

Ohm sighed. “Do you even know where the place is?”

“Nope! But I’ve heard of someone who’s gotta.”

After nearly an hour of trekking through the streets of Boston, the four masked men stood outside the Boston Public Library. They looked up at the darkened windows of the library and Toonz was the first to make a sound.

“Pfft. It’s closed! I mean, it’s almost midnight, why are we even surprised-”

“Del, how the fuck are we supposed to find someone in a building that’s locked up for the night?” Vanoss turned to the man, tone dubious and a little irritated.

“Okay, cool your heels, saps. Listen. This Faceless girl, she’s in here practically all hours of the day—and that includes night. You think as a Faceless she doesn’t know how to get in here after hours? We do that shit all the time! Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Waiting at the bar with my future booze,” Ohm intoned.

“Well Ohm, if you want that booze, you gotta work for it. C’mon, it’ll be in and out, real easy.”

“All right, all right, I’ll give someone a boost. No need to get so worked up, Ohm.” Vanoss walked around to a side of the library, partially hidden from the street. “Del, get your ass over here, since you’re the one dragging us into this mess,” Vanoss snapped, pointing at his companion before moving over to the wall. He spread his feet a little and braced himself, leaning forward with arms extended. “Hop up.”

“Just don’t drop me on my ass this time,” Del warned, placing a foot in the cup of Vanoss’ joined hands. Gripping the larger man’s shoulder, they both grunted as he was heaved up to a window ledge. Immediately, Del grabbed on, fiddling with the window to see if it was locked. “I think it’s open!”

“Well, get in there already—you’re fucking heavy! Cut down on the sweets next time, yeah?” His muscles trembled slightly while he supported most of Del’s weight.

“Almost got it… almost got it… got it!” Del finally managed to heave the window up. Instantly, the aftermath of exerting such a force sent him flailing backwards away from the wall with a yelp.

“Del!”

There was a muted thud as the two men hit the ground in a partial heap, arms and legs entangled. Seconds later, Del was laughing, and Vanoss was growling as he wriggled out from his friend’s legs. The sound of a soft click reached their ears, and both men looked up to see the window had slid closed.

There was a pause, then Del burst into a fresh fit of laughter, arm wrapped around his smarting ribs.

“Del! You fucking moron, I thought you said you’d had it!”

“I did! But then I lost it.”

“I’m gonna fucking-”

“Hey. You mugs. Over here.”

Del and Vanoss shifted their attention further along the wall they’d been previously pressed up against at the sound of Ohm’s voice. He and Cartoonz were standing in front of a small door, hidden in a recess in the wall. The door itself was wide open, and it was quite obvious Toonz was doing his best not to outright laugh at the pair on the ground.

“We found a door-”

“You found a door?!”

“You should’ve said something!”

“And miss out on the grace and beauty of you two teaming up? Fat chance. That was priceless.”

“Just shut up and get inside,” Vanoss growled as he stalked past the other two, followed by a still giggling Del. Ohm and Toonz shared a look, before chuckling a bit themselves and entering the library.

The interior was dark and spacious, the scent of old books hanging in the air. Only a few lamps bled light into the shadows.

“Wow,” Toonz remarked, “I can’t see shit.”

“Gee, I wonder w-”

“Yes, I get it, I only have one eye, Del. I could have both right now and still not be able to see my hand in front of my face.”

Del, and maybe one of the others, snickered.

“This place is huge. How are we supposed to find this girl?”

“I heard it’s more of a ‘she finds you’ sorta deal. Ya know? You just wander around the library and she’ll eventually show herself, like some urban legend.” Del began to lead the way down one of many narrow aisles.

“Man. That’s creepy as fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We aren’t dealing with some ghost, are we?”

“No, idiot, she’s Faceless, I told you. Just ‘cause the public thinks we’re ghosts doesn’t mean any of us actually are. I mean, I don’t _think_ we are…”

“Del!”

“Joking, I’m joking! Not like a ghost can hurt you anywa _aGH WASSAT_ -”

Del’s humorous bantering was cut off as they spilled out into a small area filled with tables and chairs. He came to an abrupt halt, every man behind him proceeding to slam into each other. He grunted at the jolt to his back.

“Del, what the f-”

“Shhh! Look!”

The other three men peered around their companion’s shoulders, following the line of his finger. Not that they needed to. There was only one source of light in the open space: a flickering candle, perched atop one of the tables. Basking eerily in its light was a young woman, certainly no older than her late teens, bearing a purple mask and flipping through a book. Several more crowded the space around her.

The four men exchanged looks. Toonz shook his head. “Let’s just get this information and go. She’s creeping me out.”

“She’s just a girl.”

“A creepy girl!”

“Hey, moron, she can probably hear you.”

“Oh.”

Ohm gave a hefty sigh and stepped forward, shouldering none too lightly past Del. “Look, just let me handle this. I recognize that mask. I’ve heard this informant is kinda touchy. Doesn’t like a lot of noise, or people, or bullshit. So I’ll go over and talk to her. Just… hang back, and try not to destroy half the library.” He didn’t wait for a response, and merely strode off towards the spot of light in the darkness.

The three remaining looked at each other again.

“Who died and made him leader?”

“Last I checked, we were all still kicking.”

“Look, I’m just saying, if she sucks out his soul or something, I’m gone. It was nice knowing him.”

Across the room, Ohm approached the table. His hands were clenched lightly at his sides, but he tried to suppress any other signs he was nervous. It was _just_ a girl. A girl who was part of the Faceless, and had probably killed men tougher than him. Still. He had backup. If she tried anything, the others would be on her in a heartbeat. Probably.

He should really stop putting his faith in questionable people.

“Excuse me?” Ohm’s voice was loud in the hushed silence of the library, though he could still catch wisps of conversation from his partners nearby. He grimaced, but it didn’t seem to be bothering the masked girl. She merely flipped to another page, not even sparing Ohm so much as a glance. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat.

“Purple Patty?”

Nothing. Clearly, she wasn’t the humorous type. Or maybe she didn’t care for people making fun of her mask. He resisted the urge to tug at his collar and decided to try again.

“Librarian lady?”

Nope.

“Badass bookworm-”

That was a knife. O-kay, she had just drawn a knife seemingly out of nowhere and Ohm was officially intimidated. By a girl who was probably close to a decade younger than him. _Fuck._

“You can do it, Ohm! Believe in yourself! You got this man! GO FOR IT!”

“Shut the fuck up, Del!”

Perturbed and more than a little unnerved, Ohm turned back to find the knife no longer in his line of sight. He wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved, or even more terrified. Quickly, he tried again. “Look, miss, we’re both Faceless here. We just wanna get some info and then we’ll be out of your hair, promise.

“Look, please.” Ohm shifted in place. “Can you just say something, already?”

Several seconds passed in excruciating silence, but at long last the woman’s attention was lifted from the pages. Her stare pierced through Ohm and it took all of his training not to react. Quiet and slow, her mouth opened to speak a single word: “Something.”

Ohm blinked. Nearby, Del snorted before bursting into a fit of laughter, following closely by Toonz. Vanoss was no doubt grinning behind his mask. Ohm, realizing what had just happened, released a frustrated breath.

“Everyone’s a smartass…”

“What do you want.”

“Oh. Uh… so, there’s this speakeasy-”

There was a rustle of clothing, and in the flickering light another mask suddenly appeared. Ohm jumped, and had he not immediately clenched his jaw tightly shut he knew he would have let loose a scream. There, hovering in the shadows behind the woman, was another figure. Their mask took on the likeness of a fox, and the eyes behind it stared him down with an equally cool ferocity. Except these eyes, it seemed, were quite busily stripping him down to his very core. Ohm, fully dressed and masked, had never felt more exposed.

_Oh it was well beyond time to get the fuck out of here._

“...there’s… this speakeasy. Freddy’s. We just wanna know where to find it, and how to get in. That’s all, I swear. Just help us out and we’ll get out of your hair. We’ll even owe you one, if that’s what you want-”

“I doubt you have anything I want.”

Well, _ouch_. Blunt. What was with kids nowadays?

“Okay… ”

“But you’re irritating. The information you seek isn’t free, but I’ll supply it now, nonetheless. Don’t forget what I tell you. I won’t repeat myself.” Her tone was clipped and impatient.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Freddy’s is in The Tiny Box in South Boston. When you get to the back door, the password is French for ‘hello’.” She paused, eyes narrowing slightly in obvious distaste when Ohm merely blinked at her. “You… do know French, don’t you?”

“Uh…”

“ _Bonjour_. It’s _bonjour_.”

“Oh! Right, of course! Haha, what else would it be-”

“Get out, now.”

“Huh? Oh. I…”

“Leave.”

“Uh-”

“ _Now_.”

The two stared each other down- well, okay, Ohm was staring at her. The woman had already gone back to her book, completely dismissing him without so much as batting an eye.

“...Well, uh, thanks-”

That was a knife again okay time to go. Ohm turned on his heel and practically flew back to the book shelves, his stomach dropping when he found no sign of the other three. “Del? Vanoss? Toonz?” He looked around, only able to catch the barest of voices behind him.

“ _Sorry I’m late. I got distracted..._ ”

“ _Grab a book._ ”

Ohm dismissed the voices and continued on, returning to the door they’d entered through. He pushed outside and let the door swing shut, then looked around, panic fluttering in his gut.

“Guys?” Had something happened to them while he was distracted? Did that pair in the library have their own friends, who had ambushed his crew in retaliation for the disturbance? The woman had said her information wasn’t free, what if that meant-

“ _RARGH!_ ”

This time Ohm _did_ scream, leaping a good foot or two away from the sound with metaphorical hackles raised. His arms were up in a defensive posture, small explosives held tightly between each finger. It took all his willpower to keep from igniting and throwing the tiny bombs.

Although, seeing as it was his three “friends” standing before him, all laughing up a storm, he was beginning to regret holding back. He scowled behind his mask and slowly lowered his arms, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you fucking _assholes_.”

“Come on Ohm, don’t be such a wimp about it! Just admit we got you good!”

“Look at me, I’m Ohm, and I’m scared of a little girl!”

“I wasn’t fucking scared!”

“Oh yeah? Tell that to the piss stain forming in your pants.”

“What?! I didn’t-” Ohm honestly took a second to check, which only triggered a fresh bout of laughter from his friends. Of course they were messing with him.

“Oh _fuck you_.”

“Hey, at least you got the information, right? Night’s still young, let’s just go and- Ohm? Ohm no. No, Ohm- _Ohm-!_ ”

The sound of numerous small explosions could be heard in a several blocks’ radius, coupled with a few manly shrieks. If the cops were called, the boys wouldn’t know it, as they were long gone.

It was many minutes later when the four of them stopped on a corner, hands on their knees and sucking in lungfuls of air. Del was chuckling around each breath, while the rest of them were shaking their heads and fighting against grins.

“South Boston, eh?” Del said, still sounding a bit winded. “Irish territory. Great, that just means the place definitely has good booze.”

“You racist son of a bitch.” One of them shoved the other as they started to walk.

“What? You can’t tell me they don’t like their liquor.”

“That’s a dirty stereotype man, what the fuck.”

“Oh shut up. If we see a buttload of Irishmen in the joint when we get there you all owe me a beer!”

“As if you weren’t gonna just mooch off us anyway.”

“Uh, guys?” Toonz spoke up. “Not to interrupt or anything, but I think we’ve got some company.”

The other three paused their banter at Toonz’s comment, taking a moment to observe their surroundings. Del twisted around, while Vanoss checked the windows and rooftops.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Just keep walking. Listen.”

The four set off again, keeping up a slightly quieter dialogue so as to better hear. Vanoss was the first to whisper.

“Footsteps.”

“Yeah, I think they’ve been following us since we left the library.”

“Well, we weren’t exactly subtle about our position.”

“You think they’re alone?”

“I’m only hearing one set of extra footsteps.”

Abruptly, Vanoss’ head swiveled around, and he caught a glimpse of a black cat mask before its owner ducked behind a building.

“...Looks like we’ve got a black cat trying to cross our path.”

“What?”

“We got all worked up over a cat?”

“No, you idiots, not an actual cat. Faceless cat. Cat mask. About a block behind us.”

“Oh. Cat mask… hey, doesn’t that sound familiar-”

The four halted as they came to a quiet intersection, and they watched as two tall young men walked around a corner. They, too, had masks: one bore a surreal visage of a roaring lion, while the other had a sleek black mask with paler markings (they could have been stylized musical notations).

“Jae, we’ve passed that bakery at least three times now. I think we may be lost.”

“Did we really? I’m figuring it out! Every pass of that bakery is a signal I picked the wrong path, and eventually I’ll narrow it down to right one. We’ll find our way eventually!”

“Uh… huh. Right.”

The two came closer, still seemingly unaware of the four standing on the corner watching them. The young men were wearing attractive eveningwear—nothing too fancy, but certainly not casual. Each carried an instrument case, and they paused with identical startled looks when they realized they were not alone.

“Okay, either there’s some party going on we don’t know about, or there are a metric shit ton of Faceless on the streets tonight. God damn,” Toonz quipped.

“Oh, um, good evening? And uhh, I have no idea what you’re talking about!” The one in the dark mask, Jae, squeaked out, tense and gripping his case.

“Yeah, clearly we’re just going to a ball. Don’t even know what you mean by ‘Faceless’.” The other sniffed.

“Oh my god. Are all of the newer recruits smartasses?” Ohm groaned, dragging a hand down his mask.

“Well, I mean, we were—and still are. You can’t exactly fault them for it,” Vanoss pointed out. He was probably grinning again at the frustrated look Ohm sent his way.

“You two seem a little lost,” Toonz piped up.

The young man in the lion mask gave another sniff, his disdain clear. “We’re fine, thanks. You guys should worry about yourselves, alone out here at night. It’s dangerous, ya know.”

“We’re like twice your age!” Vanoss snapped.

“That would make it even more embarrassing if anything happened to you, wouldn’t it?”

“Should you really be taunting these guys right now? They kind of outnumber us-”

“It’s only by two. I’m not scared! I mean, one of them has an owl on his face, and another is missing an eye.” Lion mask pointed to each masked man as he spoke. “That one’s got some weird symbol on his face and, uh, I don’t even know what to say about you.”

Jae pressed a hand to the side of his mask. “… Please. I beg of you.”

“Fuckdamn. Do we still got that hierarchy rule about kicking the shit out of anyone on a lower rung than us? Because damn if I don’t got an itch,” Del crowed.

“Tell me about it, we didn’t ask to be sassed all night by a bunch of prepubescents,” Ohm grumbled.

“Well, we didn’t ask for you, either,” the young man snapped, hefting his instrument case and glaring at the four.

“Hey! Okay, okay, let’s try and be civil about this, yeah?”

“That’s it, that one’s just asking for it!” Vanoss took a step forward, bristling, but a new voice cut through the tension in the air, and directly behind the four men.

“Meow.”

They all jumped, and Vanoss whipped around, eyes wide. The owner of the cat mask he’d seen earlier was just about in his face. “What the _fuck-_ ”

“Excuse me, hoot-hoot. You’re standing in my way.” She looked to be in her mid twenties, elegant in a black evening dress. The woman stared Vanoss down with cool, hazel eyes. She stepped forward, and he stumbled back, the other three parting for her as well like Moses and the Red Sea.

“Who the fuck is that?” one of the hissed.

“I dunno,” another murmured under his breath.

“She looks kinda familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Boys? Whispering is rude, ya know,” the woman purred, turning to shoot them a judgmental look over her shoulder. It only lasted a second, though, before she was circling around behind the two younger men and tossing her arms about their shoulders.

“Boys, boys, my boys! Getting lost again, are we? Now, we can’t have that. You’ve got a job to do and I have places to be—so now say goodbye to these lovely gentlemen, and let’s be on our way.”

“Bye!” Masquerade mask chirped easily, lifting a hand in a motionless wave.

“Hey, wait, you can’t just fucking-” Ohm started forwards, but was interrupted by the second young Faceless.

“Never said hello, can’t say goodbye. Looking forward to never meeting them again,” droned Lion mask.

“Likewise. Well, goodbye boys! Ta-ta! Cheerio! What have you, whatever language you happen to speak. Don’t you get lost now, too,” the woman in the cat mask crooned in a teasing tone, ushering the two young men in her arms across the street and away from the four. “Although, if you do happen to lose your way,” she called back over her shoulder, “I have just the directions for men of your age and maturity! Second star to the right, and straight on till morning!”

It took a moment for anyone to comprehend the reference, and by the time Ohm did, the trio was long gone. He cursed. “We just got roasted. Hot and heavy.”

“Hot and heavy, huh?”

“Shut up, Del. This was your idea in the first place, so let’s just go and get plastered already. I wanna forget this night ever happened,” Vanoss groused.

Together, the men continued on their way. It didn’t take long before they reached the Tiny Box. They paused a few yards away, taking a careful look around.

“All right boys, masks off. We’re officially incognito,” Vanoss stated, tucking his mask away.

“If we’re incognito _without_ the masks, then what are we with them on?” Del asked.

“Double incognito.”

The group chuckled.

“Alright guys, shut up and let’s do this.” Vanoss led the way to the back door in the alley, then stepped aside for Ohm. “Hope that potato dame gave you the right info. Especially after all the shit we’ve been through to get to this place.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ohm gave a few sharp knocks, and the door popped open just a crack.

“Password?”

“ _Bonjour_.”

The door swung open. A tall, well-built man with curly brown locks looked each of them over before stepping aside, gesturing for them to enter. The four shot each other some grins and eagerly stepped inside, walking through the hallway, past the kitchen, and into the main room.

The place was hopping. There wasn’t any music at the moment, but the sounds of chatter and laughter were loud in the space. Booths and tables alike were nearly packed, and many people were standing around, too. The bar was crowded; everyone there was boisterously raising their glasses.

Ohm nodded his approval. “Okay, okay, I can get with this. This is ace.”

“See? Told you guys! And look at all the Irishmen, how about that beer?” Del was grinning broadly.

Vanoss rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we find somewhere to sit first.” He was peering around the room, looking for any open tables, but his jaw nearly dropped after taking in the sight of one particular corner.

“No fucking way.”

“What?”

“Look. Over there. Black cat, ten o’clock.”

“I’ll be fucking… how did she get here before us?”

In a corner of the room, occupying her own table with a classy sort of aloofness, was the cat-masked woman from earlier. The two others were nowhere to be seen. She was calmly nursing was looked like a glass of water, and her gaze flicked to their direction the moment they all laid eyes on her. Pale fingers tightened around the glass.

The four men took that as their cue to move on, and headed deeper into the crowd.

“So, drinks?”

“Drinks!”


	22. Distractions and Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's Tunes:  
> Old Devil Moon - Miles Davis  
> Billie’s Bounce- Wes Montgomery

_ Monday, March 5, 1923; Molly’s journal _

_ Freddy’s has been going for almost a year now, and I think it’s time that Wilford and Felix meet. Both have been handling this better than I could have expected, and out of everyone, I think they’ll be the most likely to get along civilly. _

_ I’ll be taking Felix to Freddy’s tonight. I’m not letting him bring either of his bodyguards, which he’s nervous about, but I pointed out that Wade would be there if anything went wrong. _

_ That didn’t seem to reassure him much. He knows Wade too well. Or not well enough. I’m honestly not sure which. _

_ Here’s hoping that after tonight, the whole joint hasn’t burned to the ground. _

The moment Felix walked into Freddy’s he was greeted by the familiar sounds of chatter and glasses clinking—and an over-enthusiastic puppy barking at the most exciting things. Apparently, that included Felix himself: Chica had darted over to him and was now bouncing about, tripping over her own feet.

Oddly, though, one sound Felix  _ didn’t _ hear was music. Sure, there were the sounds of instruments, but they were methodically repetitive and much more like the tuning that always happened before Freddy’s would even open.

Curious, Felix glanced over to the musician’s stand. Sitting there were two young men; obviously not Jack or PJ, or Dan, or Mark. They seemed a little confused, and a bit overly tense, but perhaps that was because they’d never played at a speakeasy before.

Why weren’t the normal band members playing, though? Chica was here—she was currently gnawing on his shoelaces, in fact—so Jack had to be here.

Felix looked around the room, trying to spot his friends. He could see PJ’s girl (Mark had said her name was Sophie?) but there was no sign of PJ himself. There wasn’t any sign of Molly or Wade, either; though Felix was sure he’d seen JP in one of the back rooms as he’d come in through the alley entrance.

In fact, the only ones Felix could see were Mark, doing his normal stuff; and Jack, sitting alone in a corner and watching the room.

Felix walked over to Jack and slid into a seat next to him. “What’s going on? You’re not playing.”

“Peej had a family emergency and couldn’t make it. It didn’t feel right to be playing without him,” Jack replied absently, frowning as he fixed his gaze on a particularly rowdy table. 

Felix followed his line of sight and instantly realized that easily half the noise in the speakeasy was coming from the four men sitting around that table. 

“They’ve drunk even more than I have tonight, and I started early.” Jack glanced at Felix before returning his attention to the group. “Tyler’s had to go and be threatening around them a couple of times already, and they’ve been here for maybe... twenty minutes?”

Felix looked at Jack for a moment. “They’re outdrinking you.”

“I’m not trying to get drunk,” Jack said as he shrugged, “I’m just having a drink. Trust me, if I was trying to get drunk, Tyler already would have thrown me out.”

Felix shook his head, then looked over to the musicians on the stand. “Where’d Wilford find them?”

“I didn’t ask.” Jack glanced over, too. “And as long as they can keep their mouths shut about this place, I don’t really care.”

Felix nodded, examining the two temps. They seemed to know each other decently enough; certainly well enough to work together as smoothly as they were. They’d had a few tiny hiccups in the music, but otherwise were doing perfectly fine. Not as well as Jack and PJ, of course, but Felix was probably biased about that.

Jack cursed under his breath, and Felix turned back to see Jack glaring  _ hard _ at the rowdy table.

There were now only two men still sitting there, and they seemed about ready to wrestle on the table. A third was now wandering from table to table, rowdy, impolite, and clearly making the other patrons uncomfortable. And the fourth- oh. Oh  _ no _ .

The fourth was standing next to Sophie, leaning close to her, completely ignoring her obvious disinterest and growing discomfort.

“Watch my drink,” Jack growled before launching to his feet and storming up to Sophie’s table.

Felix just stared at him. What was Jack doing—was he going to get in a fight? Did he need to get up and help him?

Despite Jack’s natural volume, Felix couldn’t hear his friend over the sheer noise of the two still at the table. He did see Jack speaking, expression downright furious—and he saw the drunk man brushing off whatever Jack was saying before turning back to Sophie.

Jack grabbed the man’s shoulder and physically pulled him away from Sophie, and while Felix still couldn’t hear what the Irishman was saying, he could read the “She’s not interested” on Jack’s lips.

Felix grinned and leaned back in his seat. This was why he loved Freddy’s: it brought people together. Nowhere else would Jack have jumped to interfere with someone just because of friendship—decency, too, but the point here was friendship between two people who otherwise would never have become friends.

The drunk man finally backed off, and Sophie followed Jack back to where Felix was sitting. 

“Good evening, Miss Newton,” Felix greeted her simply.

“Evening, Kjellberg.” Sophie carefully took a seat across from both Jack and Felix.

“You can call me Felix if you want.” Felix shrugged. “Don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Before Sophie could protest his forwardness on the topic, Felix turned to Jack. “Chica has a collar now, I noticed.”

Jack nodded. “She has this tendency to explore everything.” Jack took a sip of his drink. “Not a bad tendency, mind you, but I didn’t want someone thinking she was a stray and… dealing with her.”

“Would your neighbors do such a thing?” Sophie asked.

“Nah.” Jack shook his head, his lips quirking up at the corners. “My neighbors all love her. Their dogs are a little scared of her, but the neighbors themselves are fine with her. It’s just that she once wandered for an entire day. No idea how she got out.” Jack shifted in his seat. “She found her way back nice and safe, no injuries or anything, but I want to be prepared. She might not be so lucky next time.”

“You’re a fine adopted father for her.” Felix smiled.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I think I’m an uncle.”

Both Felix and Sophie just looked at him, mildly confused.

“I’m serious.” Jack nodded to the golden puppy out on the floor. “Look at her. She’s following Wilford, not sticking around me.”

Felix glanced to the main floor of Freddy’s, and, after a moment of deliberately ignoring those four rowdy drunks, he spotted Chica, who was indeed trailing Mark around. Well, sort of. At the moment, she was actually barking at one of those men—the one Mark was following around with a determined look on his face—and delighted laughter was coming from the man who had previously been flirting with Sophie.

“She’s having the time of her life.” Felix shook his head.

“She sure is, but I don’t think it’d be nearly as fun for her if Wilford wasn’t here.” Jack took a thoughtful sip of his drink.

The three sat in more-or-less comfortable silence for a while before Sophie leaned forward in her seat, garnering their attention.

“Where’s Madame Foxglove? I was rather hoping to see her here tonight.”

Jack took a much more deliberate drink this time. “Dunno. I don’t know their schedule.”

Felix shook his head as Sophie looked to him. “I don’t know either, but I know who will.” He craned his neck around, and then, having not found JP, stood. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll go find him.”

Ultimately, Felix found JP and Ethan flopped around the break table in the back. Ethan looked well and truly exhausted, but he was smiling anyway as the two spoke.

“Hello there, Felix,” Ethan greeted. “What can I do ya for?”

“I actually came to talk to JP.” Felix dipped his head.

“Oh.” JP blinked, then sat up, then stood. “Sure. What do you need?”

“A couple of us were wondering where Molly and Wade are tonight. Haven’t seen either of them since Wade told me he was planning on proposing.”

JP shifted in place, looking a little hesitant. After a moment, he blurted “Someone tried to kill them.”

Ethan, who had been taking a sip of whatever he was drinking, spluttered. “What?”

“Are they okay?” Felix stared at JP.

“Yeah, yeah, they’re both unharmed, but they’re laying low for a bit.” JP shook his head. “It was scary, finding out how close I’d been to losing them.”

“Losing anyone is a scary thought,” Felix assured.

“Well, yeah, but…” JP shook his head. “I’ve already lost one family. They’ve been like older siblings to me—sometimes even parents. I don’t think I’d be able to handle losing either of them. Not like that.”

“What happened?” Ethan asked. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me-”

JP flopped back in his chair. “They were on their way home. Molly had said yes to the proposal—because of course she did.” JP grinned. “Wade said they heard a gunshot behind them, and they ran to the closest shelter they could find; in the time it took to get around a building into an alley, they’d already heard two more shots.

“I’m really confused on this next part, because Wade said he glanced back and saw guys in suits dead in the streets. Italians: he could tell by their panicked shouts. They were the ones getting shot—but they clearly had guns on them. They looked prepared, and they still died.”

JP looked up. “Closest I can figure is that these were some of the mafia ready to jump them, and someone else altogether started sniping the mafia to protect Wade and Molly.” He frowned. “It doesn’t make much sense, though. No one knew Molly and Wade would be there that night. It was strange enough the mafia had found them—but for someone else to be around to protect them? I don’t know. I don’t like it..”

Felix raised his eyebrows. “That is strange.” He had an idea who had been protecting them, though.. 

JP shrugged. “A lot of strange things happen in Boston, I’ve noticed. I wonder if it’s like that in the rest of the world, or not?” He turned back to Ethan. “Anyway, as I was saying before this egg interrupted us, that alley was bad luck all over. And if that wasn’t enough, a bull was right there when I got out.”

“How did you avoid getting arrested?” Ethan blinked in amazement.

“It’s one of the ones Molly has bribed.” JP sighed in relief. “So that was a bullet narrowly avoided...”

Felix shook his head in amusement and returned to the main floor of Freddy’s, just in time to see Tyler and Mark intimidating the one drunk Mark had been following around.

Well, it wouldn’t be too much longer before that table got thrown out, then.

Felix dropped into his seat, and Sophie looked over.

“They won’t be here for a while.” 

“Oh? Did you find out why not?”

“Someone tried to kill them.” Felix grimaced. “They’re alright, I asked—but they’re being careful for a while.”

Sophie stared at Felix with wide eyes. “I should hope so.” She looked between Jack and Felix for a moment. “Neither of you seem surprised at this.”

“They’re the biggest names in the Orchids.” Jack put his drink on the table and leaned back. “Madame Foxglove runs that mob. They’re bound to have made plenty of enemies over the years; I’m actually surprised it’s been this long since the last hit on them.”

Sophie blinked, and leaned back in her chair. “Do we know who tried to kill them?”

“JP said Wade heard some Italian. Probably the Liguori Family.” Felix leaned back in his chair.

Jack grumbled something under his breath at the mention of Boston’s Italian mafia, and it was quiet enough Felix couldn’t quite catch it.

Sophie sat still for a long moment, looking at the table. When she raised her head, something in her expression seemed to have changed. “I see.” She stood. “If you gentlemen would excuse me, I’ve had enough of Freddy’s for the night. Thank you for the company, and the conversation.”

“Of course.” Jack nodded, and raised his glass to her.

“Do you have a ride home?” Felix asked, standing himself. “It’s not safe to walk alone after dark.”

“I’ll be fine, but thank you for the offer.” Sophie smiled—it was an awfully sad, small smile—and walked off.

Felix sat back down, then glanced over at Jack. “The women in this city worry me sometimes.”

“With that mindset, you won’t ever have to worry about getting a visit from an Orchid hitman, then, will you.” Jack raised an eyebrow.

Felix snorted. “Why would I ever be at risk of that? I’ve never done awful things to the girls.”

Jack laughed softly. “I can tell. You’re still alive.” Jack took a sip of his drink and looked over the floor, leaving Felix feeling a bit uneasy at how casually Jack had said that.

“I think it’s time for the owner of this establishment to take a break.” Jack put his drink down and stood, walking over to Mark. 

Felix paused, then followed after him. It might take several people to pressure Mark into a break, after all, no matter how intimidating Jack could get.

Sure enough, as he came up behind Jack, Mark was refusing Jack’s offer to take a break, and the ever so constant look of exhaustion was clear on his face.

“Come on, Wilford. You’re shaking. The customers are getting worried.”

“That’s because there are four hooligans threatening to bring the place down,” Mark muttered, shooting pointed looks at the four evidently loud and rowdy men. 

“It’s fine. This place won’t be going anywhere while you take a break.” Felix waved off Mark’s protests. “Besides, Tyler and Ethan will make sure nothing gets out of hand.”

“But-” Mark stopped, then looked down at the light weight that had just settled onto his foot. Chica was sitting there, nearly toppling off his shoe, and staring up at him with her large brown eyes.

Jack snorted. “Even Chica knows you need to stop. You don’t want to have a repeat of the performance you gave last time, don’t you?”

Mark paused, indecision evident in his eyes. He looked at the two men at the table threatening each other none too civilly, and at the other two who were wandering about and leaving destruction in their wake. He then glanced down at Chica, and bit his lip. He said nothing for a long time, and for a moment it seemed like he going to argue again, before he finally gave a reluctant sigh

“Alright.”

Jack nodded. “Good. I’ll get Ethan to fill in for you.” He strode briskly to the break room in the back.

“Come on, Wilford. Let’s get you seated.” Felix gently led him by a hand on his shoulder and guided him back to Felix and Jack’s old table.

Chica followed them to the table, and after they were seated, Mark bent down to pick up the golden furball.

“I also wanted to discuss something with you.” Felix watched as Mark cooed at the puppy before turning his full attention to him.

“What is it?”

Felix cleared his throat, a sheepish look blooming across his face while he avoided eye contact: a poor attempt at keeping his dignity whole. 

“Ken’s birthday just passed, and while I had all of the resources to guarantee him a fantastic party, I uh…” Felix coughed. “I may need assistance in planning another one?”

Mark only looked at Felix for a moment before he placed a hand to his chin, a thoughtful grin unfurling across his face.

“His birthday, eh? Of course.”

Mark thought for a moment before something occurred to him.

“Say, does Ken enjoy lavish and grandiose parties? I would think, since you’re the richest man in Boston, that-”

“No, he doesn’t,” Felix interjected, wringing his hands. “He’s not one for the big life.”

Mark looked at him. “Oh?”

Felix nodded. “He refuses my offers for any extraneous raises, saying he’s fine and comfortable where he is.”

“What about his previous birthdays?”

He shook his head. “I swear those were the most awkward times of his life.” Felix ran a hand through his hair. “He has no qualms about being my bodyguard, but when every set of eyes are on him, he turns into quite the milquetoast.”

Mark chuckled while he stroked Chica’s fur, earning him some delighted tail wags.

“Not everyone’s cut out for life at the top, Felix. You should know Ken better than the rest of us.”

Felix gave Mark a perplexed look. “But why? What’s there to dislike about living it up?”

“Oh, I don't know… the excessive waste of money, the stress,” Mark shot Felix a teasing look from the corner of his eye as he listed things off, “the people.”

Felix gasped and placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “Wilford! I am offended! How dare you label me like this?”

Mark rolled his eyes before he gave him a smirk. “I’m only razzing you. Calm down before your pressure boils over and cooks you into the envy of the Irish.”

Felix only gave him a deadpan look. Mark laughed softly before he placed an elbow on the table and leaned over a bit.

“But I’ll honest. You're one of the better eggs that I’ve met. You're not like those people that have no sense or regard of the less fortunate.” His voice was soft and it held genuine sincerity.

Felix bit his lips and cast his eyes down on the table. He spoke to match the level that Mark was speaking. “Even after I told you about… about that, you still believe in me?”

Mark nodded and Felix looked up to meet Mark’s warm eyes.

“Thank you, for that day.” Felix smiled softly. “And I could say the same about you. Thank for you for listening.”

Mark opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, a loud and familiar voice startled the two of them.

“What are you two whispering about?”

Both of their attentions turned to Jack while he came up to them and plopped down on a seat at the table, giving the other two curious looks. They shared a glance before Felix grinned at Jack.

“Oh, nothing, Jackaboy. Just that Wilford here thinks I can outdrink an Irishman.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, delivering a scrutinizing look towards Mark while he took a sip of his newly filled drink. “Did he?”

Mark shrugged. “If it's anything to go by, poker night seems to put the dough in my favour.”

Jack snorted, while Felix gave both of them suffering looks.

Mark sighed in annoyance. “The point is, Felix bent harder than Carnegie’s Steel company. You only see those kinds of blotto men in the Irish.”

Jack slammed his glass down on the table, the liquid nearly sloshing over the edge. “I wasn’t trying to go out on the roof that night. Lord knows what I would’ve done if I let myself loose.” He turned his head towards the commotion on the main floor. “Besides, I think some folks here tonight would disagree.”

The other two followed his gaze, Mark grimacing in particular.

“I don’t know what to do with them. I’m not sure if I want to throw them out, because they’ve got the scratch—but at the same time, they look like they’re getting ready to blow this place down.”

Jack shrugged. “You’ll want to get Tyler to act fast if you still want a business, then. These guys seem like bad news.”

Felix noticed the resolve in Mark’s eyes and acted quickly, before Mark could cut his own break short.

“So anyways! Back to Ken’s party.”

Jack turned back to him. “The bimbo’s party, eh? Is that what you two were going on about?”

Felix nodded. “His birthday just passed last week and I need some advice from people who don't live the big life.”

Jack snorted. “Oh yeah, none of those frilly and frou-frou things. Too many glittery things, in my opinion.”

The egg only sighed and placed a hand to his temple. “I don't understand you people sometimes.”

“Personally, I think growing up and getting by in the streets without a silver spoon in your mouth builds character and gives you a sense of appreciation for some things. Right, Wilford?”

Jack and Felix turned to Mark only to find him still staring at the rambunctious table out to the sides of the floor. 

“Err... Wilford?”

Mark blinked, drawn out of his stupor by his friend's voice. “Sorry. You still need ideas for the evening?”

Felix swirled the drink in his glass, staring at it thoughtfully. “If you have any, go for it. Though it does need to be something that Ken can agree on. That bimbo’s too humble to accept anything out of his league.”

Mark placed a hand to his chin while he thought for a moment.

“If you say that Ken’s not one for the attention…” Jack and Felix looked at him expectantly while Mark trailed off, staring into space.

“What if we make it something to celebrate several things? That way not all of the attention will be on him, and if he feels the need to leave, it won't be a big deal.”

“I mean, that sounds amazing, but how would we do that?”

Mark tilted his head. “Well, Molly and Wade just got engaged this past week. That's something to celebrate. PJ and Sophie are together now, and that's something to celebrate.”

“I get the feeling you're just going to mention a whole bunch of things having to do with your friends and their romances.” Jack shook his head as he took a sip, keeping an eye on the rowdy table. “And I can add to that list. A friend of mine—his girl just came into town. They could use a nice night out.”

“Well,” Mark stroked his chin, “why not? A couple's night, if you will, here at the Tiny Box. Reservation only, of course; so we can make sure all the guests of honor make it. And there's nothing particularly scary about a special date over the evening meal.” He turned back to Felix. “Do you think Ken will be okay with something like that?”

“That sounds perfect.” Felix nodded. “Fancy enough to express appreciation for him, but casual enough he won't feel out of place.”

Particularly loud arguing reached the table where the three of them were sitting, and Felix looked over to see it was, of course,  _ that _ table. Two of them had finally gone and started wrestling  _ on _ the table, sending glasses to the floor, and the one who had been previously flirting with Sophie was shouting at both of them.

Mark set Chica down and stood, all in one fluid motion, then began striding over to them with an expression that said they really were in trouble now.

Felix and Jack exchanged a glance over the table, then scrambled to their feet and bolted after him. These guys were trouble, there was no denying that; they weren’t about to let Mark be without backup when they could do something about it.

Felix walked up to the table just in time to hear one of the two wrestling men curse at Mark.

The other wrestling man laughed, rolled off the table, and landed on the floor with a solid thud. 

“You aren’t going to help me out here? It was your idea to do that!” Cursing man shouted.

“Help how?” The guy on the floor laughed as he pushed himself up. “I’d defend your honour, but I don’t think you have any.”

“ _ Hey!” _

“Fine, fine, but you owe me one.” He turned to Mark. “You and I. Let’s have it out.”

It sounded like Jack growled, and he was certainly already stepping forward to interfere.

The challenger held up a hand in Jack’s face. “No weapons, nah. This is a fight for pride, not for blood.” He grinned and looked back at Mark, then glanced around the speakeasy. “There. Music. A gentleman’s duel.”

“You’re no gentleman,” snorted the man who had been flirting with Sophie earlier.

“You’re one to talk.” Challenger man looked back at Mark. “Let’s do it. Come on.” He started walking towards the stage.

Felix paused and looked at Jack. “Does this happen often? Wilford doesn’t seem super bothered by it.”

“Drunk people do a lot of weird things.” Jack shook his head. “But as long as it’s just music, he should be able to handle himself.”

“And if he loses?” Felix glanced back at Mark as he and Challenger Man chose their instruments. The two temps looked very alarmed at the going-ons, but neither of them had said anything yet. Actually, one of them looked rather excited for the upcoming challenge.

“Then I beat these four up until they go crying for their mothers.” Jack seemed a little too enthusiastic about that idea.

“You? What about me?”

Jack just looked at him. “You’ll tend to Wilford.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “I can do more than that.”

“I’m not delivering your body to Marzia. So, no, you’re not.”

Felix crossed his arms. “I can help fight.”

“Sure.” Jack started walking back to their seats. “That’s why you normally have a bodyguard with you.”

Felix just looked at Jack, following. “So, seriously, has this happened before?”

“Not while I’ve been here.” Jack shrugged, dropping back into his seat. “But maybe. Wilford’s being super calm about it.”

Felix gave Jack a long look. “You’ve been here longer than I’ve even known where this place is.”

“You knew it existed before I did, though.” Jack pointed out.

“I didn’t learn where it was until Madame Foxglove decided to actually introduce me to Wilford. Liability and all that. You were already here by then.”

Jack dipped his head. “I’ve been visiting here for almost a year. Haven’t come every night, especially not at first, so this sort of tomfoolery could have happened when I wasn’t watching.” 

Felix glanced to the stage, only to see that one of the poor temps had been wrapped up in the whole debacle. Mark and the challenger seemed to be in brief discussion, then both gave a nod to the temp, who made a concerned face and nodded.

Mark glanced over at them, then sort of gestured for Jack to come up and play the drums.

“Glad you asked if I wanted a part in this.” Jack rolled his eyes, but stood and walked over to his usual place at the drums anyway.

Felix settled back in his seat and took a sip of his drink, fixing his eyes on the musician’s stand. Was he going to understand the rules of the contest? He doubted it.

Jack and the temp were saying something to each other, and the temp nodded. And then Jack began tapping out a steady beat, and the temp joined in on the saxophone. They were playing significantly slower than most nights. Not so slow that it felt awkward, though.

Challenger Man and Mark seemed to be switching off on segments of the music: Mark on his trumpet, and Challenger Man on the guitar. How did that constitute as a competition? Felix took another sip of his drink. Clearly, he didn’t understand the rules, but that wasn’t stopping him from silently cheering for Mark.

“Hey!” Ethan suddenly shouted, and Felix’s gaze snapped to that troublesome table. Two of the three remaining men had pulled knives out. “No offing people in this speakeasy!”

The competition came to a crashing, discordant stop, and Challenger Man was flicking his gaze between the table and Mark—Mark, who looked a bit off.

Felix muttered a curse and stood, ready to run to Mark should his friend show signs of collapsing again. 

But no. Jack had his hand on Mark’s shoulder, even as Mark sent a horrified look to the table with the potential knife fight. Mark moved towards the table, but Jack shook his head, and instead herded Mark to a chair.

More shouts rose from that table, and Felix looked back over to see that Tyler and Ethan were successfully holding down the two men with the knives. Those knives were now glinting on the floor, lying next to the man who had been flirting with Sophie earlier.

“You’re done here.” Ethan growled at the man he was pinning.

He got grumbles and cursing in response.

The door to the kitchen and the back rooms swung open, and Cry stepped into the room. He froze as he took in the view. It was impossible to tell what Cry was really thinking, since he was indeed wearing his mask, but his body had clearly tensed.

Felix hurried over to Cry, grateful for the protection his appearance offered. As much as Felix pretended otherwise, Jack was right. Felix couldn’t fight.

As Tyler and Ethan forced the two knife men out of the speakeasy, the man who had flirted with Sophie sort of glanced their direction.

Felix could have sworn he heard a strangled gasp issue from behind Cry’s mask.

Then the man who had flirted with Sophie bent down and picked up the knives his friends had dropped, and Challenger Man jumped down from the musician’s stand to join his friend.

“Get behind me,” Cry said softly, his voice sounding a bit regretful.

“What?” Felix blinked.

Cry pushed Felix into a booth table, then ducked as a blade flashed through the air.

“Ohm!” Challenger Man cursed. “No!”

But Cry had already been tackled, and was now struggling to keep the second knife in Ohm’s hand from doing damage to his throat.

“Really? We’re doing this now?” Cry sounded completely unsurprised that this man wanted to kill him, merely irritated that it was happening in a public place, with all these people watching.

“Ohm, get off him!” Challenger Man darted over to where Cry and this man called Ohm were struggling against the wall.

Cry cursed, even as Challenger Man pried Ohm off of Cry. Instantly, Tyler was grabbing Ohm and dragging him out, even as Ohm struggled and spat profanities.

“We promised we’d bring her food!” 

Felix sent a startled glance across the room to realize the two temps were arguing with someone in a full-face cat mask.

“For the last time, you are _not_ getting involved with those idiots and their squabbling, you _will_ go gather together your instruments, and _we_ _are getting out of here._ Now go. And I swear if I see you stray from your designated tasks I will personally dump you in the seediest neighbourhood of Boston and let you _find your way home._ ” The person wearing the cat mask, a woman judging by the voice and elegant dress, was addressing the temps in a clipped, no-nonsense tone.

“But what about the  _ food- _ ”

“For the love of- we’ll go home and I’ll  _ personally  _ whip something up for her, we aren’t staying here a minute longer. Now  _ go. _ ”

“...you’re gonna make some for us too, right-”

_ “Not if you don’t  _ **_move it._ ** _ ” _

The temps finally hustled off towards the abandoned stage, and Felix’s attention was drawn back to Cry. He was slowly picking himself up off the floor with a bit of wheezing and grunting. At first, he looked unscathed, but then Felix caught sight of blood trickling down the side of his neck. He blanched a bit and followed the trail up to a noticeable slice in the shell of Cry’s ear. Nothing that would require stitches, but it was bleeding quite a bit.

“Cry-”

“I’m fine,” Cry grated out before Felix could say anymore. His voice was rough and lacking any emotion while he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe haphazardly at the blood. He pressed it to the wound and glanced back out the door, where the sound of Ohm’s slurred shouting could still just barely be heard.

Felix wanted to push the issue: ask about Ohm, and why he would attack Cry on sight with such reckless abandon—especially in the middle of a crowded speakeasy. However, Cry wasn’t saying anything else, and he’d already shifted his attention to the only other person in the room bearing a mask.

Perhaps now wasn’t the best time for questions. Felix would bring up the subject later, when they were alone. He followed Cry’s gaze—much as it could be traced with the mask on—to find the masked woman sharing words with Mark. Jack had successfully gotten him to a table, and had a fiercely protective expression on his face. Felix might have laughed, if he wasn’t feeling on-edge himself.

“I’m really sorry, it’s usually not like this. That’s the first time I’ve seen those men in here. They likely won’t be allowed again, I still really appreciate your friends filling in here…” Mark was saying, his tone completely apologetic; almost remorseful.

The masked woman shrugged languidly. “They weren’t hurt; that’s what matters. I’ll consider it, if you ever need them again, but for now we’re going to head out. They’ve had enough excitement for one night. I highly suggest being a little more preemptive with your judgments in the future, though.”

Cry was clearly watching the woman, and Felix had to wonder what his expression might be beneath the mask. Did he know her? ...Did he know her, because they both wore masks? Maybe he was just curious, since people hardly went around wearing the things.

They almost seemed to meet eyes, for a moment, when she passed them with the two younger musicians.

She sniffed at Challenger Man as she passed, who was looking shame-faced and guilty in the wake of all the trouble his friends had caused. One of the temps ducked around to the masked woman’s other side, clearly anxious, while his partner proceeded to direct a lewd gesture at Challenger Man. Then the three were gone.

Challenger Man spared Cry and Felix a brief glance, before turning and making his way over to Mark’s table. Felix hesitated, then gestured for Cry to follow when he headed over as well. He wanted to make sure Mark was okay, and that the last remnant of that rowdy group wasn’t about to try anything. With one of his right hand men here now, even bleeding from the ear, he felt far more confident.

“...ayy sssorry for my friends,” Challenger Man slurred, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding the glare Jack was giving him. “They werren’t supposed to do any ohf those shtupid things. We caused a loht of trouble and it’s bad.”

Mark nodded slowly. “I see.” 

While Mark had a conversation with Challenger Man (which mostly involved listening to the apology being offered), Felix took a good look at Mark. He seemed just as weary and worn down as ever, but he didn’t seem to be quite as much on the edge of complete exhaustion as he had been before his other collapses.

Mark nodded again, and Challenger Man dropped his head. 

“Ohkay.” Challenger Man nodded. “I’ll make sssure they don’t come baack here. It’s the leasht I can do.”

“Appreciate it.” Mark dipped his head slightly.

Challenger Man nodded and stumbled off.

Cry tapped Felix on the shoulder, and when Felix turned to look at him, tilted his head slightly. 

“We should go. I’m sure Ken will want to chew me out for this sooner than later.” He glanced at the blood on his handkerchief for a second before pressing it back to his ear. 

Felix nodded. He had a long conversation to have with Cry while Ken patched him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When we started writing this, we did it with the intention of having fun and making friends. And we’ve certainly done that—the six of us have gotten closer than any of us even could have imagined, and we’ve had a blast writing this so far. We never imagined we’d get this kind of support: 928 hits and 93 kudos! Wow. Just wow.
> 
> Before we started publishing chapters, we decided we wanted to keep ahead of what was published, a cushion of chapters for when we were slow with writing or when life hit hard, so we could guarantee that you guys would get consistent chapters no matter what happened.
> 
> Well, life hit hard. Finals happened, life happened, one of us is in the process of moving, and three of us are taking at least one class over the summer. We had to plan upcoming chapters and decide on character arcs and do research. Between it all, we lost that cushion.
> 
> We’re taking a temporary hiatus to get everything back on track, to get back the cushion of chapters and get our lives in order. We’re not planning to be gone for longer than a week, but we don’t know how it’ll go. 
> 
> We will come back.
> 
> During the week of no additional chapters, several of us will be online and on social media and willing to talk if we have the time (no promises, though, since we’ll all be working hard on everything). If you want to, you can ask us questions through our tumblr ask boxes, or leave a comment on Ao3. We’ll get to answering it when we have the time (please note that some comments take considerably more time to answer than others because of worldbuilding or the story and we have to consult as a group to decide how to best answer).
> 
> We aren’t going to leave Against All Odds to die in permanent hiatus-land, and we should be back on schedule in about a week. At the very least, we’ll give you an update in a week. 
> 
> Thank you for being such great readers.
> 
> -The whole team


	23. Delightful Drama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's Tunes:  
> Frustration- Duke Ellington  
> Where Are You- Sonny Rollins

_ October 31 _ _ November 1, 1922; Jason’s Journal _

_ Maybe I should quit being a detective. _

_ I get married in four days, and they had me out all last night working. I had plans, chief. I had plans. _

_ I get it: Halloween is a busy time for crime. The night draws out the bad spirits in everyone, or something like that. It certainly drew out all sorts of bad men last night. Matthew and I were out for the entire night, cracking down on what crime we could. Finally, at what had to have been three in the morning, we were dismissed. _

_ Oddly, on my way home, I ran into that old friend from the war. He offered no explanation as to why he was out so late, and I didn’t ask. We decided to go ahead with the plans we made earlier, as impossible as some of them were at that time of night. I was desperate for humanity, so I wasn’t thinking too clearly about this. _

_ Well, what would you know—a kid ran up to him asking for help. They’re neighbours of some kind, I think. Anyway, there was some sort of crime being committed, and the kid was convinced my friend was the only one who could stop the bad men. My friend tried to send me home, but I have the power to arrest, so I followed along. Sometimes I’m too stubborn for my own good. _

_ As it turns out, I wasn’t needed. By the time we arrived and I properly understood the situation, there were three more bodies on Boston’s streets. Who knows, these ones might even make it into the paper. _

_ I don’t think I’ve ever seen my friend so angry before. _

Gar had gotten into the habit of coming into their office before most of the other officers and detectives arrived for their day shifts. Not too early, only ten minutes or so. Of course, there were quite a few who were getting off their night shifts, and detectives pretty much worked whenever they were required to and often when they weren’t, but it was by far much easier to sneak Dante in when there were fewer people around.

Gar set Dante down behind his desk, and, with soft instructions for the corgi to not leave the room, went over to the filing cabinet and shelves that lined one wall.

MatPat had put Jason’s journals there so Gar could access them easily. MatPat had also placed every last one of his own investigation journals there, so Gar could study technique if he wanted (the senior detective had warned him that a few of them had comments about Steph, though, so Gar hadn’t really looked through them yet).

Gar hadn’t even filled up a single journal with investigation notes, though he was getting close. This speakeasy he and MatPat were following was likely to be the set of notes that finished it off.

That would be an exciting day. Filling a journal felt like a sort of milestone, no matter how unimportant it sounded.

The office door opened and Gar glanced over his shoulder. He was ready to tell whoever had come in that he wasn’t allowed to accept a case, unless it was something he’d been assigned to do by MatPat—but it was just a very tired looking Patrck.

“You’re here late,” Gar said, pulling the most recent of Jason’s journals off the shelf. “Did something exciting happen?”

“Nah.” Patrck shrugged. “I mean, there was the usual—a couple of bodies showed up in the river in those bags, and I caught the tail end of no fewer than six crimes, but nothing unusually horrific or a mob fight or anything like that.”

Gar turned to look at Patrck, giving him a bit of an odd look. “You know, the more I hear about what goes on during the night shift, the more I’m glad MatPat makes sure we only work during the day.”

“That sounds boring, honestly.”

“Oh, it’ll change soon enough.” MatPat said as he walked in. “You’re experienced enough now, so I’m less worried about you dying every time we walk outside.”

Gar gave MatPat a smile. “You were worried about me? Aw, I’m touched. You do care.”

“I’m worried more about all the paperwork I’d have to file if you died under my watch.” MatPat grinned.

Patrck stood from where he was leaning against the wall. “Well, I’m going to go before too many others get here. They’ll find things for me to do, and delay me from getting home to Marie. Have fun, and be safe.”

Gar waved as Patrck left, then turned to MatPat. “So, I did some investigating into how Jason and Mr. Wade Barnes could have known each other.”

“Oh? Did you find anything?” MatPat glanced at the journal Gar was holding.

“Well, this mentions Jason meeting up with an old friend, and sort of implies that they knew each other from the war.” Gar held up the journal. “So I hunted down who Jason would have been close enough with in the war to consider them a friend. And it's a large list, he was a likeable guy, but when I just looked at the people who live in Boston, or did at the time of that entry...” Gar took a deep breath and handed over one of his own sets of notes containing names and years served and unit.

“Thomas Sanders and Wade Barnes.” MatPat raised his eyebrows. “Sanders was in the same unit as Jason?  _ Wade _ was in the same unit?”

Gar nodded.

“Interesting.” MatPat tilted his head. “Why didn't Jason say anything about it?”

“I dunno. Maybe he thought you would make him sit out all the Orchid cases.”

“Makes sense, they must’ve been in close arms with each other.” MatPat looked like he was remembering something.

“And this ‘Thomas Sanders’ guy, does he ring any bells for you, too?” Gar asked. “These notes say that Thomas might not even be his real name. Says he goes by ‘Logan’ in one place, ‘Roman’ in the other. There might be more. That’s a lot of aliases for one man.”

“Yeah, I know him. And as far as I know, his real name is Thomas Sanders. He’s one of the local actors around town; Steph and I saw some of his shows. You should come some time.”

Gar shrugged. “I guess we’ll see.” He paused. “So you know where to find Sanders?”

MatPat nodded. “He's usually at the theatre when he's up and about. Or the library, sometimes.” Now it was his turn to pause. “Are you suggesting the three of us go pay him a visit and see what he can tell us?”

Gar paused. “Three?”

“I know Dante is under your desk.” MatPat raised his eyebrows, then moved as if ready to leave. “Come on, we can't let him not get his walk in.”

As it turned out, sneaking Dante out of the office was significantly easier with MatPat helping. MatPat didn’t  _ seem  _ angry about Gar bringing Dante into the precinct, which was very good. MatPat could singlehandedly destroy Gar’s future as a detective.

“So, just how do you know Sanders?” Gar looked over at MatPat as they started on their way.

MatPat shrugged. “We were in theatre together.”

Gar stopped and just looked at MatPat, causing Dante to stop and look back at Gar.

“You were an actor?”

“I wanted to be.” MatPat laughed softly. “I wasn’t nearly as well-liked as Sanders, though, and he continued in the field while I had to find something else.” He threw a grin at Gar. “It’s not so bad. This is a fun job.”

Gar shook his head and started walking again. “No wonder you keep your cool so well when reporters try talking to us about a case, or someone gets angry.”

“Acting is a very useful skill.” MatPat burrowed deeper into his coat as a particularly chilly wind swirled down the street. “It’s helped me out of a lot of bad spots.”

Gar dipped his head. “I can see how it’d be good for that.” He looked at Dante for a moment, frowning. “Hang on a minute.”

MatPat stopped, and Gar knelt next to Dante before pulling a scarf out of his pocket and carefully wrapping it around the corgi.

Dante seemed to smile at that. He certainly wagged his tail.

“I don’t object to you bringing him along,” MatPat said as they started moving again, “but he’s got to be properly equipped. And if there’s the possibility of danger…” MatPat frowned.

“If we know there’s a higher-than-average chance of trouble of some kind, I’ll leave him with my dad.” Gar looked down at Dante (the scarf was staying on just fine). “I don’t want him getting hurt, either.”

Dante borked at that, as if agreeing.

MatPat chuckled. “Alright. Welcome to the team, little guy.”

Dante borked again.

“So where exactly are we going?” Gar asked. “You said ‘the theater,’ but there’s dozens of places around town that fit that description.”

“Well, last I heard, he was one of the permanent actors at the Tremont Theatre, although he might have moved since then. But it’s as good of a place to start as any.”

Gar nodded.

They walked in silence until Gar glanced over at MatPat. 

“You’re looking at me. What do you want to say?”

“Why did you decide to take me on for my rookie year?”

MatPat raised an eyebrow. “Jumping straight into the deep end, I see.” He looked down at the ground passing underfoot. “You were a good friend in the war. Picked things up quickly, too—I’ve never seen someone catch onto cryptography like you did.” MatPat shrugged slightly, then frowned.

“...There’s something more, isn’t there.”

MatPat nodded slowly. “After Jason’s funeral… I wasn’t doing so well. I was distracted a lot, could barely even do my own job.” He shook his head. “Steph wanted me to take a break from work, it was so bad.” He smiled faintly. “And then I got your letter about moving to Boston, and it was just… I was relieved. I can’t tell you how relieved I was.”

“Oh.” Gar blinked, glancing down at Dante. He was glad MatPat had yet to ask how Gar had known where to send the letter—home addresses weren’t actually one of the things they’d discussed before being discharged. He’d had to hunt it down.

“And then you mentioned that you wanted to be a detective, and, well,” MatPat explained as he laughed, “I couldn’t shut up about it. Everyone was sick of hearing about you by the time you moved into town, and the day you talked to the chief about it-“ MatPat grinned at Gar “-well, he was more than ready to dump you on me to make me shut up about how great you were.”

Gar couldn’t help but smile at those words.

“Not that it made a lick of difference.” MatPat chuckled. “I still talk about you a lot. Steph hears far more about you than she ever wanted to.”

“Is she aware I hear more about her than I ever wanted to?” Gar rolled his eyes.

“Everyone hears more about her than they ever wanted.” MatPat grinned broadly, his eyes soft and bright. “Nobody really seems to realize how amazing she is.”

Gar laughed. “She makes you happy. I think everyone’s realized that by now.”

MatPat grinned even more. “She’s perfect.”

“You’ve convinced me.” Gar held out his hands in a motion of surrender. “She’s the best woman on the face of the earth.” He glanced down at Dante and gave a shrug.

Dante borked.

MatPat nodded. “You sure bet she is,” he replied, a little bounce in his step.

\-----

As it turned out, Mr. Thomas Sanders no longer worked at the theatre where MatPat had met him, sending the two detectives to most of the nearby theatres before they found out he’d started work at Boston Theatre.

They stopped to grab food for lunch (even finding something Dante could eat) and continued.

“We don’t allow animals inside.” That particular statement was delivered by a sour-looking staff member of Boston Theatre as they directed a frigid look at Dante. “Not unless they’re performing.”

“Oh, but he is.” MatPat’s expression just dared the staff to argue with him. “Not this week, no, but he’s particular. He has to get to know an area before he can properly perform in it.”

The staff member’s expression wavered, then their eyes narrowed. “Oh, really?”

“Really.”

“Then who is working with-“

“Matthew, my old friend, it is good to see you again.” Very suddenly, a dark-haired man had his arm slung over MatPat’s shoulders and was grinning winsomely at the staff member.

“Mr. Sanders, please, you need to-”

The man, apparently the mysterious Thomas Sanders, looked at MatPat, then Gar, and then Dante and back to the staff member.

“It’s perfectly alright, I asked them to come.” He dropped his arm from around MatPat and made a shooing motion. “Come on, come on, let’s get out of their hair and into the back. I have so much to show you.”

Gar, completely unsure of what to do, just followed MatPat’s lead as they were herded into a hallway and into what he could only assume was a dressing room of some kind. The door had “Sanders” written in large print, so it was probably a safe assumption.

Sanders’ overly cheerful expression dropped—into a normally cheerful expression. “What are you doing here? I thought you said you were done with theatre.”

MatPat shrugged. “I am. We’re here on work business, unfortunately; not for socializing.”

“Good, because I’m not in the mood for casual conversation.” Sanders dropped into a seat. “How can I help?” His gaze flitted to Gar. “I assume this is your new partner?”

MatPat dipped his head. “Thomas, this is Garuku Bluemoon. Gar, Thomas Sanders.”

Gar gave a tiny bit of a bow, and Sanders dipped his head.

“Glad to meet someone that can keep up with MatPat here.” Sanders grinned.

“Who said I can?” Gar shook his head. “I’m just along for the ride right now.”

Sanders laughed softly. “That’s fair.” He turned back to MatPat. “Really, what can I do you for? It’s been awhile since we talked face to face, but you mentioned work business?”

MatPat nodded. “We were doing research for an investigation of ours, and your name came up.”

Both of Sanders’ eyebrows shot up. “Well, I don’t think I’ve done anything illegal, so I’m willing to help in any way I can.”

“You’re fine.” MatPat assured. He paused. “You never told me you were in the same unit as Jason and Wade Barnes.”

One of Sanders’ eyebrows went down, leaving the actor with a concerned look. “I didn’t think it was important. Why, is it?”

“It means you might know things that’ll help us.”

Sanders leaned back in his seat and let out a long breath, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll do my best to answer. No promises, though. It’s been awhile since I heard Wade’s name. It’s been a year.”

“A year?”

Sanders dipped his head. “Yeah. Jason was the only one I knew who even talked about him.” He hesitated, a bit of grief flashing across his face. “I knew they were both in Boston, and Jason and I talked a few times before he died, but I don’t know where Wade is. I never asked.”

“Did he never come to visit you?”

Sanders shook his head. “I don't think he knew I’d moved to Boston.”

“But you knew he was here?”

Sanders nodded. “Jason talked about him. Said the two of them met up every other week or so to catch up on life, and remember old friends.”

MatPat nodded slowly. “You and Wade, were you close?”

“Everyone's close in a unit.” Sanders shrugged. “We talked a lot, if that's what you're asking.”

“Did he ever talk about a girl back home?”

Sanders blinked and leaned forward in his seat. “Yeah; most did. Why?”

“What did Wade say?”

“He always called her “Molly” or “Moll,” and he seemed more and more worried about her the longer we were away. There was even a month where she missed sending her letter.” Sanders shook his head. “It was almost like he was worried she was getting into trouble of some kind.”

Gar tilted his head. That was about the right time for the Orchids to have started. Had Wade known about it from Molly's letters?

“Did Jason ever say anything that made you think he’d met this Molly?”

Sanders nodded. “Yeah. Why, did he never talk to you about any of this stuff?”

MatPat shook his head. “I wasn’t even aware he knew Wade.”

Sanders leaned back in his chair. “Wow. That’s rough.” He frowned. “Why are you asking about this, though?”

“You know I can’t tell you that right now.”

Sanders shrugged and gave a half-grin. “Worth a try.”

MatPat just gestured for Sanders to continue.

“It was just a few things he said in passing.” Sanders titled his head, as if trying to remember. “That Wade seemed happy in his relationship. That she would sometimes join them for their socializing.”

“Do you know where they would go for their regular meetings?”

Sanders shook his head. “No. I never asked, and he never offered.” Sanders hesitated, then leaned forward again. “Look, Jason never told me any of the places he went on his own time. He’d talk about his wife, sometimes Wade, even more rarely Wade’s lady friend, but never where he went. At the time,” Sanders made a pained face, “at the time I didn’t think anything of it, but after he died, and I found out what had killed him...” Sanders sighed. “I’m sure you know this means he knew where at least one speakeasy was?”

MatPat’s expression had saddened at the mention of Jason, and tightened at the rest of Sanders’ statement. “I know. He didn’t leave any clues about it, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Sanders glanced at his watch. “I’d love to help you two more, but I really don’t know a lot about Wade’s life after the war. And I definitely don’t know what was going on with Jason. But I’ve got a rehearsal starting in two hours, so I need to get in costume and all that.” He stood, clearly signalling he was done answering questions.

MatPat dipped his head. “Thank you. Hopefully we’ll be able to find something with what you could tell us.”

Sanders nodded. “I hope so.” Then he made a shooing motion. “Now get.”

MatPat turned and left the dressing room, and as Gar and Dante followed, a shadow seemed to pass across Sanders’ face—just a flicker of an unusually dark expression for such a seemingly cheerful man.

“Matthew.”

“Hmm?” MatPat said, turning in the doorway.

“I don’t know why you’re asking after Jason, and I know you two were great friends, but be careful.” Sanders sighed. “Jason was dealing with a lot of things he didn’t talk to many people about, and...” He hesitated. “I just want you to know… he was always much more willing to face the world after he’d spent time with Wade.”

MatPat went still, eyebrows furrowing at the words.

“I don’t think he was irresponsible enough to drink himself to death. He’d just gotten married, after all, and he clearly cared for her very much.” Sanders shifted in his seat. “Do you think he’d risk losing her for some giggle juice?”

MatPat frowned. “No. I’ve never thought that.”

Sanders nodded. “Yeah, I figured.” He paused, looking into his mirror, eyes distant. “Just...” A deep breath, and he looked at MatPat, then met Gar’s own eyes. “Just be careful. Whoever offed Jason clearly doesn’t have problems getting close enough to detectives to do them harm, and Boston can’t afford to lose its two best ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, we would like to thank all of you for your support during our week hiatus! We were completely overwhelmed by the amount of support you guys gave us and we're coming back strong. Now, during this hiatus, we all pitched in and made an official Royal Flush Blog on Tumblr, it's https://royalflushstories.tumblr.com/ ! Feel free to ask questions about the story, about the characters, about the authors, submitting fanarts, one shots, ideas, anything really! Again, thank you so much for your patience and tune in next time for a new chapter!


	24. Out of Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We've updated it!
> 
> Today's Tunes:  
> When or Where: My Funny Valentine - Duke Ellington  
> I Didn’t Know What Time It Was - Art Blakey

_Wednesday, May 9, 1923; Gar’s Journal_

_I want to quit._

_I have been in training for all of two days and I’m ready to stop. MatPat’s been nothing but kind, and he’s clearly excited for me to be here, but that doesn’t stop everyone else._

_I have heard no fewer than eight bets placed on how long I will last as MatPat’s partner, and three more about how long it’ll take before I end up dead in the streets. Who knows how many have been placed when I wasn’t around to hear them._

_I knew it was going to be rough. I know the number of detectives who show up dead every year. It’s not pretty. But I didn’t know it would be this bad, this fast. I didn’t know my biggest enemies would be other law enforcement. I didn’t know I would be so out of place._

_One month._

_I’ll give it one month, and if things haven’t gotten better by then, I’ll call it quits._

To Gar’s surprise, MatPat didn’t take them back to the station when they left the theatre, and instead led them the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?”

“Oh, I promised Tom Fischbach I’d stop by the Tiny Box and check up on his brother.” MatPat glanced over his shoulder as the two wove through the crowd of people. It was steadily getting thicker as people got off work, and headed home for the day. Was it that late already?

“If you need to, you can head for home, too.” The way MatPat said that made it almost seem like an afterthought.

“I’ve still got a while before Dad expects me back,” Gar assured him. “We don’t normally stop work for another couple of hours, remember?”

“Oh, you stop thinking about the case when you get home?” MatPat threw a grin at Gar.

Gar sighed, but smiled. “Okay, it’s interesting. I’ll give you that.”

MatPat laughed, and Gar chuckled, shaking his head. What did MatPat expect? Gar was the one who was new to this, sure; but he’d stuck around through the entire first speakeasy they’d shut down, and that had been quite the adventure in itself. 

Meeting Tom, though—that had been a weird day. Not because Tom was strange, or because it was unheard of for MatPat to work closely with the judge, but because it had been so sudden. Gar had been given no warning; MatPat had pulled him to the side after all the arrests at the speakeasy and introduced the two.

Tom had been kind, and obviously interested in meeting Gar, but there was something about him that made Gar uncomfortable. Something that made him certain Tom would throw his own friends and family in jail if they broke the law.

Hopefully Mark wasn’t anything like that, or Gar would have to start avoiding those two members of the Fischbach family. He hadn’t seemed like that at the poker game, but Gar’s memories of the conversations they’d had were blurry at best.

\-----

Most restaurants didn’t allow animals, so Gar was more than a little nervous as MatPat led the way into the Tiny Box. Almost instantly, the waiter walking by the door—Ethan, if Gar was remembering from the poker game correctly—glanced at Dante, and Gar automatically pulled Dante closer to his feet. Ethan didn’t say anything, though, merely continued on with his work.

Dante gave a soft bork, and Gar glanced over to see Mark approaching them with a wide smile and a springing walk. A hint of weariness was apparent, however; it hovered right under the mask of cheerful, welcoming energy.

“Good afternoon, detectives,” Mark said warmly. “How can I help you today?”

Dante borked at Mark, and Mark looked down. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. Hello to you too.”

Dante lolled out his tongue, seeming to smile at that.

“We can’t really stay,” MatPat started, “but we were in the area-” Gar had to bite back a sarcastic response at that- “and thought we’d stop in to see how you were doing.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He shrugged, even as Ethan walked up to them. “I’m fi-”

“Hey, it’s time for your break.” Ethan leaned an elbow on Mark’s shoulder.

Mark gave him a flat look. “Excuse me, I’m talking.”

“Talk in the back.” Ethan raised an eyebrow.

“I’m supposed to give you orders, not the other way around.” Mark shrugged off Ethan’s elbow.

Ethan sighed and walked off, and a frown flicked across Mark’s face before the smile returned.

“As I was saying before I was interrupted, I’m fine.”

“You’ve recovered from a few weeks ago, then?” MatPat asked cautiously.

Unmistakable irritation flashed across Mark’s face. “Clearly, or I wouldn’t be working.” Behind him, Ethan emerged from the back room with a blonde woman in tow—Amy, her name was?

“Mark,” Ethan said again, walking to the other side of Mark as he spoke. “It’s time for your break.”

Mark looked over as if to protest a second time, but froze when he saw Amy.

“Come on.” Amy held out her hand. “The floor will be fine for half an hour, and you can continue your conversation in the back.”

Mark sighed, then made a face. “Alright. But only twenty minutes.” Amy glared at him. “Thirty minutes, it is.”

MatPat and Gar exchanged a glance. Gar didn’t know how long Mark had been working by now, but a half hour break wasn’t all that much when you were on your feet for a long time. After a few brutal 18 hour days on the last speakeasy case, Gar had wanted to cut off his own feet. The only reason he was doing okay after all the walking around was because they’d taken several breaks (including one or two for food), and he was still going to be relieved when he would get to just sit and do nothing for an hour or so. 

Ethan gestured for the detectives to follow as he and Amy herded Mark to the back. Gar hesitated, glancing at Dante. As much of a miracle as it was that Dante was allowed inside the main floor of the restaurant, it was probably a health code violation to bring him into the back.

Ethan paused and made a thoughtful face. “It should be okay as long as he doesn’t touch the floor. Can you carry him?”

Gar nodded, scooped up Dante, and followed.

By the time Gar caught up, Mark had taken a seat around a table in the small break area, and Gar had mind to pause. Mark looked incredibly tired (not like he was about to collapse, as he supposedly had a few weeks ago) but his body had already started to relax.

“She’s good for you,” MatPat said, glancing at Amy as she returned to the kitchen.

Mark grinned. “I cause her too much stress sometimes, but I don’t know what I’d do without her support.”

“Oh, I know that feeling.” MatPat shook his head.

Mark shot up in his seat. “That’s right, you’ve got Stephanie. How’s that going for you?”

“Great. I mean, she’s great.”

Gar rolled his eyes and began petting Dante. Here he went again.

“Have you gone on a date with her recently?”

Gar looked over in surprise at that question, his expression mirrored on MatPat’s face. 

“Uh-”

Mark made a dismissive gesture. “Of course you haven’t, you’re hot on that trail of yours.” He grinned, but the grin seemed to be hiding something behind it—or maybe Gar was imagining things. “I’ve got a couples’ night coming up soon here. It’s still in the planning stage, but when I get it all sorted out, you two are absolutely welcome to come.”

“Oh! That’s... an amazing offer. Thank you.” MatPat smiled. “I’m sure Steph will love it.”

Gar shook his head and went back to scritching Dante. While MatPat and Mark continued their conversation, he leaned over Dante. “Looks like we’re going to be hearing a lot about Steph on the way back.”

Dante didn’t seem to mind so much.

\-----

MatPat let out a long, long sigh as the two detectives stared at the house in front of them. It was a fairly typical house, though it seemed a little on the large side for newlyweds with no aging parents to care for—and even larger for a widow.

“You okay?” Gar finally asked.

MatPat let his head drop onto the back of the seat and tapped his fingers on the wheel of the automobile. Technically, it was MatPat’s, because he was the one who always drove them whenever they had to go somewhere out of walking distance.

“No.” MatPat glanced at Gar, then back at the house. 

“Do you need to talk about it?”

MatPat made a helpless expression. “I don’t think I can describe it. We’re supposed to be hunting down a speakeasy, and we’re going after the one Jason might have been hunting down...”

“But?”

“But what if he was a regular patron there? What if that’s how...” MatPat groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “What if Madame Foxglove wasn’t the one to kill him? What if it was someone else?”

“I still don’t know why you’re convinced he was murdered, but I never actually got to meet this guy, so I’ll take your word for it.” Gar bundled himself a bit more tightly in his coat, glancing at the house and wishing once again he had Dante. (They’d gone and dropped the corgi off at Gar’s place, and informed his father he’d be out late again while they were at it.) “But you’ve always been pretty convinced it was her behind it. What’s making you question that?”

“Think back to the poker game, and Madame Foxglove and Wade interacting with each other.” MatPat shook his head. “Have you ever seen two people obviously love each other so much?”

“Have you looked at yourself and your wife?” Gar raised his eyebrows with a smile.

MatPat chuckled. “That proves my point, though. As much as I hate to admit it, Sanders had a point: Jason and Wade were very close. And from the sounds of it, Madame Foxglove was present for several of their regular meet-ups, and she never once tried to kill Jason then. He was a detective, and they, criminals; but she cared enough about Wade’s relationships that she didn’t do anything about it.” MatPat ran another hand through his hair, making it even messier. “That would be like Steph murdering Jason. She wouldn’t be able to do it, because she’d know what it would do to me.”

“Then who do you think killed Jason?”

MatPat shrugged helplessly, and Gar frowned and leaned back in his own seat. It was terribly strange, watching MatPat be lost. It had never happened before; the man was just so sure all the time, so confident that he would find information, that he’d be able to build logical conclusions out of that information, and that those conclusions would be right.

It was also reassuring. Not because it reminded Gar that MatPat was human, no; Gar knew neither of them were perfect. It was reassuring because it meant MatPat could miss things about someone he worked with (like Jason) and not be able to put together the full picture.

“What enemies did you two have?” Gar looked back over at his trainer. At his friend.

“A lot.” MatPat sighed. “We made many enemies over the years.”

“Just name a few, off the top of your head.”

“Mir’s one of the more recent ones; one of the more notable ones too. None of the mobs are fond of us-” MatPat’s voice cracked- “of me—and all you have to do is look at Chris to know that any criminal would want us dead.” MatPat almost choked on a sob.

Gar reached over and put a comforting hand on MatPat’s shoulder.

Wait.

Was MatPat crying?

“Any of them would kill Jason in a heartbeat. Any of them would kill me in a heartbeat. Or you.” MatPat buried his head in his hands as his voice shook. “I just… I can’t do that again. I can’t lose another friend like that, I can’t go to your father and tell him you were killed by- by someone so unknown they might as well be a Faceless.”

“Faceless don’t exist.” Gar said reassuringly, even as he remembered the mask Kjellberg’s man had worn at the poker game. “They’re just a joke; a way to explain away unsolvable crimes. I figured that out in my first month—even you’ve made jokes about it.”

“And what if they do exist?”

Gar froze and stared at MatPat. “What do you mean?” He’d gotten used to jokes about the Faceless; was MatPat really convinced they actually existed?

MatPat wiped his face on his sleeve. “At the poker game. Kjellberg’s man, the one with a mask.”

Gar tried to push aside the feeling of uneasiness that rose at the way this conversation was going. “What about him?”

“His mask hid his real face, and it was pretty expressionless itself.” MatPat shook his head, then pulled his eyeglasses off and started to clean them. He must have smeared some fingerprints across the lenses when he’d shoved his face into his hands. “If you came across him in an alley, or late at night, you might not even see that he has a face at all.”

“Kjellberg’s man being unnerving doesn’t prove the existence of Faceless, though.”

MatPat nodded, returning his glasses to his face. “I know, but it does make you wonder.” 

Gar made a sound of vague agreement.

The two fell into silence. MatPat was likely thinking, while Gar was trying hard not to think at all. Instead, he listened to the night wind rustling through trees, watched the first few leaves fall through the pools of light from the street poles. Autumn was really here, then. There was enough gold in every tree to safely say the city had moved on from late summer and into early fall.

The night was beautiful, at least. Quiet, too; except for the sounds of nature going about its existence. And a little bit frightening: the sky was forbiddingly dark, the moon was covered by clouds, and the soft howl of the wind promised chilled skin and an uneasy feeling as soon as they exited the vehicle.

It was a good night for crime to happen. Hopefully they wouldn’t get jumped or anything.

MatPat took a deep breath, and, on instinct, Gar looked over at him. MatPat was looking back.

“You ready?” MatPat asked. 

Was he ready to meet Jason’s widow? Not really, no; but he was ready to get home and cuddle with Dante, and this needed to be done first, so he nodded.

The wind was freezing as the two walked up to the door, and Gar huddled deep into his coat. 

The last time MatPat had walked these steps with his work partner, it had been Jason, almost a year ago.

And it would be the first time Gar would ever meet Jason’s widow.

Gar took a deep breath as MatPat knocked. They were expected, but that didn’t make him feel any better about this. MatPat came and visited her regularly, he knew; kept an eye on her, and made sure she felt welcome and safe, but Gar...

Gar had replaced this woman’s husband in MatPat’s life.

He was aware of it—he’d heard enough comments about it at the station. Usually, those kinds of things were said when people weren’t aware he was in the area, or listening. These comments were usually things like “MatPat’s new partner,” though the emphasis had faded over time.

Although there were enough things said that included referring to Gar as “the new Jason” or placing bets on how long Gar would last before he would “go the way of Jason.”

It was morbid, and Gar hated it.

The door opened, and a young woman flicked her gaze over both of them, her smile wavering when she saw Gar. 

Introductions went around, and Jason’s wife let them in the house. They came to a stop in the first room, and she gestured for them to take seats with a, “Here, I’ll bring out some tea.”

Gar complied, glancing around as he did so. This had been Jason’s house once. Between the journals and this, it was like getting some sort of official introduction to the man he’d never met. Or, at least the remnants of him, depending on how much the decorations had changed since Jason’s death.

Photographs of a large family hung on the wall, dust tinging the top of the frames. Jason’s wife and an unfamiliar man were featured in one of them, and MatPat’s gaze lingered on that picture.

That was Jason, then. That was what Jason had looked like. (It hopefully wasn’t what he looked like now, because that would be creepy.)

Gar decided not to think on that too much, and instead turned his gaze to the rest of the room. It was oddly spacious, just like the house as a whole had seemed from the outside. There weren’t any signs of aged parents or children—not that Gar would have expected there to be children, since Jason hadn’t been married very long by the time he died.

The rest of the room didn’t seem to have much in the way of decoration, but there were some patches on the far wall that were lighter in color than the rest, like bookcases or something had recently been moved after a long time there.

Gar looked over at MatPat. He couldn’t imagine what must be going through his head right now, what his thoughts must be, as he sat in a chair Jason all too easily could have occupied—had he not been dead.

Jason’s wife—Jason’s widow—returned to the room and took a seat across from the couch, setting her tray on the table between them.

She and MatPat made conversation, and outside of answering whatever questions were sent his way, Gar stayed out of it. He instead just quietly watched the light reflect off his tea as he tilted the cup. 

This wasn’t his place. He wasn’t supposed to be here at all. Jason was. But Jason was dead, and Gar was in his place, and it all felt wrong.

“Every two weeks,” Jason’s wife said, cutting across Gar’s thoughts. “That’s all I know, that the two would meet up every two weeks. Sometimes they went to the movies, sometimes they went on a walk around the city, sometimes they just left to go who-knows-where.” She smiled sadly. “He always looked forward to those days. Honestly, so did I- not because he’d come home smelling like alcohol, which he usually did, but because over the months, he was getting better.”

Better? What had Jason been recovering from that MatPat hadn’t known about?

“It took me a while to notice, but he was starting to have fewer nightmares, and they didn’t seem as severe as they had been.” She leaned back in her seat and took a sip of her tea. “Spending time with Barnes helped him so much more than anything either of us had ever done before. It wasn’t perfect, I’m not sure it ever could have been perfect, but it was better.”

“Do you know where they went the most often?” MatPat asked simply.

She shook her head. “No. I’m sure it was a speakeasy, which I’m sure is why you’re interested in it, but Jason never told me. He didn’t want anyone accusing me of association with those places if worst came to worst.”

MatPat nodded. “That doesn't surprise me. Someone at the station once insulted you and it took three of us to hold him back; he wouldn't have wanted to give them more bases for insults. Or worse.”

Jason's widow tilted her head, even as MatPat glanced out the window. “It's late, and we don't want to disturb your routine. Thank you for answering my questions.”

“Of course.” All three of them stood in more or less unison, and Gar gave her his customary half-bow and head dip before moving to follow MatPat out to the automobile.

“Detective Bluemoon?”

Gar stopped in the doorframe and turned back to her. “Yes?”

She smiled, and it didn't seem so sad anymore. “I'm glad you're Matthew’s partner. He was just as upset as I was at Jason's death, and then you gave him hope.”

“I'm just glad he took me on.”

She nodded. “Take care of him, okay? It's what partners do.”

“Of course.”


	25. Finished Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's Tune:  
> Psalm- John Coltrane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, this is really, really important. This chapter contains torture. It doesn't last long and doesn't get in super graphic detail, but it is a thing. It's definitely a thing.
> 
> There will be a ******* before that bit begins and after it ends.

_ May 4, 1919; Molly’s Journal _

_ I fought for the Orchids. I fought to guarantee everyone a safe place to work, a safe place to live, and a safe community. _

_ Enough is enough. _

_ No more. The awful men who cross the boundaries set in every Greenhouse, with every Orchid, they’ve gotten away with what they’re doing long enough. _

_ I sent Wade after one earlier today. He just came back and reported. _

_ We’re setting laws today. The men who do these things now know it’s their own lives they’re risking. _

No matter how necessary it may be, Molly still hated being up in the middle of the night for Orchid business. There were so many other things she could be doing: sleeping, cuddling with Wade or Keeters (or both), reading...

But no.

Molly looked at Minx. “Is that everyone?”

Minx nodded. “They’re all accounted for. Want me to send for the traitor stoolie?”

Molly narrowed her eyes and stared at the floor for a moment. Wade usually handled these things, but he was asleep. Perhaps she’d send for him in a bit, but for now, she wanted to talk to this man herself.

“No,” she said slowly, “send for JP instead. He needs to learn about this side of the Orchids.”

Minx dipped her head and glanced at a male Orchid, who was standing in the doorway, waiting.

“Ritz, go to Molly’s and pick up the boy. Come back as soon as you can, and if we’re gone or the coppers are swarming the place, head to the warehouse.” Minx flashed a sharp-toothed grin. “You’ll know which one by the screams.”

Molly had to give it to the Orchid; he only blinked at Minx’s remark. Perhaps he was used to her humour, after having lived next door to her for a good many years—or according to the general public, with Minx. Only a few choice friends knew who really was in a relationship with whom.

Once Ritz was out of earshot, Molly turned to her friend, struggling to hide her smile with a frown.

“You know we won’t have started anything that causes screaming, right? I need JP there, first.”

Minx chuckled. “Oh, I know. I just wanted to see his reaction.”

Molly shook her head, allowing the smile to slip out. She could always count on Minx to give a horrible situation a silver lining, even if for a moment. 

“Everyone out,” she called, walking towards the back exit and gesturing to the few remaining Orchids to follow behind her.

Minx waited to the side while Molly instructed everyone to either find a place to stay, or move to the temporary shelter they’d set up. After a few hugs, and whispered well-wishes, everyone dispersed.

The two of them waited for a few minutes, entirely silent. Molly’s place wasn’t too far away, but Ritz and JP didn’t arrive, so they began to weave through the back alleys and headed for the warehouse.

“He was the Orchid who sounded the alarm, right?” Molly spoke up, sounding a bit breathless as they darted from shadow to shadow. They paused at the mouth of an alley, then walked calmly out onto the street, linking arms. It was late, yes; but they still had to be careful.

“The copper was a first-time client of his,” Minx replied softly, “and I guess he spooked. Ritz told me he came back the next night, threatening to tell his captain about the place. The copper was a regular with the girls in that Greenhouse, but I talked with a few of them. They said he never was comfortable around them.”

Molly shook her head. “So did the pig think Ritz was going to snitch on him? Every client knows the Orchids don’t do that.”

“He mustn’t have believed it,” Minx replied, “and according to Ritz, he high-tailed it right back to his precinct when Ritz threw him out.”

“Ritz followed him, and didn’t get caught?”

Minx nodded. “Ritz then found me, and we contacted you, so the brothel could be evacuated.”

They turned a corner, and were in shadow again.

“You know,” Minx muttered as they walked up to the warehouse, “I really hope I didn’t wake Krism when I got up to deal with this, or I’ll be getting an earful.”

Molly shrugged. “Blame it on me—or, better yet, the bull who caused all this trouble.”

“Maybe you should stop allowing known bulls to be clients. It’d cut down on how often this happens.”

“Most of them understand the rules perfectly fine.” Molly shook her head as they approached the door. “I don’t want to get rid of perfectly good clients if we can help it.”

Minx shrugged. “Alright then.”

Molly unlocked the warehouse and went inside, leaving Minx just inside the door for Ritz and JP to be able to get in. Neither of them would have a key, after all.

Molly paused among the crates and took a deep breath, composing herself. All the panic was over now. She would find a new building for a Greenhouse later, find a new place for the displaced Orchids to live and work after she’d had some proper rest.

But now; now it was time to let the bull know he’d made an inexcusable mistake.

Molly smoothed out her gloves, then walked into the main area of the warehouse.

Tied up in a chair in the middle was a man in the familiar blue uniform of Boston’s law enforcement. He’d clearly struggled when getting tied up, like most did, as he was sporting a fresh bruise across his face and a bloody lip. Likely, if Molly checked under his sleeves, she’d see imprints of hands in fresh red and purple.

She didn’t care enough to do it, though.

The bull raised his head as she approached and sneered at her, though the action didn’t hide his attempts to pull away from her.

“What do you want? I ain’t giving you information.”

Molly smiled, but didn’t say anything.

“You run an awful place, with awful people.” The bull swallowed. “You almost caught me, you know that? If I’d gone through with it, you’d have me ruined.”

Molly raised an eyebrow. “You mean like you would have been if anyone had found out you frequented an illegal brothel? It doesn’t matter who you see. A client is a client.”

He paled some. “And what would you know about how the world treats men like me?”

Molly shook her head. “Why do you think I allow men to work in my brothels?”

“To deal with the women who visit.”

Molly smiled and crossed her arms. “Most of the women who visit aren’t interested in men.”

The bull seemed to freeze at that. “Then how- what?”

“Madame Foxglove?” Ritz’s voice said softly. “I brought him.”

The bull’s head snapped over at Ritz’s voice, and he paled even more.

Ritz walked into the light and crossed his arms, not even sparing the bull a single glance. Just behind him was JP, rubbing his eyes and with a massive case of bedhead.

Molly bit down her laugh.

“Why- Why did you bring  _ him _ here?” The bull pulled away so quickly he actually managed to skid the chair a few inches backwards—at which point, physics caught up to him and the chair tipped, sending him toppling backwards with a yelp. 

“Thank you.” Molly looked at Ritz. “Go find yourself a place.”

Ritz glanced at the bull, even as panicked shouts and gasps began to fill the air. He shook his head. “May I?”

Molly dipped her head.

Ritz walked up to the cop and crouched next to him. The cop squirmed, but had only managed to pin himself more by knocking the chair over.

“You don’t think I’d be in just as much trouble as you if I told on you?” Ritz said calmly. “If not more. So I had no motivation to do that.” He shrugged. “You could have had a whole lot better of a deal than you’ve got now, that’s for sure.” He stood. “But you chose to tell, so you get the consequences.”

And with that, now looking significantly more pleased with himself, Ritz left.

Molly turned to JP, who had managed to smooth his hair into something more presentable. He’d never done this before, normally it was Wade, but there was a first time for everything. “Pick up the chair.”

JP yawned as he walked to the bull, who had resumed his frantic squirming. “You know that’s not going to do you any good, right? Those knots are tied really tight. You’d have to cut off your feet and hands to get out of them.”

A whimper rose from the bull, a whimper that turned into a full-blown scream as JP reached for him and abruptly ended when JP, instead of strangling the man, yanked the chair into an upright position.

“Now what?” JP crossed his arms.

Molly smiled and started walking forward. “Get the bat.”

JP walked over to where Wade stored his baseball bat.

The bull flicked his gaze between Molly and JP and, if the third pause was any indication, Minx, before landing among the crates.

“It’s got good balance,” JP observed as he walked back. He nearly hit Molly with an experimental swing, earning an even look in return.

“What are you thinking, kid?” The cop squirmed in his bindings. “You’re too young to be all tangled up in this. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you—don’t throw it away in a life of crime.”

JP snorted quietly.

“Look, did she take you from your family? There’s no way your parents agreed to this.”

*******

_ Crack-snap. _

The bull howled with pain, and JP straightened to his full height, eyes blazing.

“That’s rich, coming from the likes of you.”

Molly held up her hand, preventing JP from snapping out with the bat again.

The copper let out a strangled whimper, then looked up once again and visibly flinched at Molly’s approach. “What do you want?”

“Who did you talk to?”

He pulled into himself. “I ain’t telling you anything.”

Molly shrugged and crossed her arms. “That’s fine.” She nodded at JP.

“Don’t make the kid do it!” The man started struggling again. “He’s too young to be trapped by you. Just give him back to his family—unless you had them kill-”

The bat cracked down on the copper’s knee, twisting his entire leg. 

Molly waited for the sobs to die down before walking right up to the copper. Placing a hand on the chair she leaned forward, and got up close and personal. JP, though still clearly furious from what had been said, was kind enough to grab the man’s hair and yank his head back to force him to look at Molly.

“I’m not interested in silence. I’m not interested in excuses. I just want answers. And the next time anything  _ but _ answers comes out of your mouth,” Molly smiled, drawing her knife from its hidden sheath and dancing it between the two of them before tracing the blade down the man’s throat, “I will personally slice you open,” down his chest, “show you what your ribcage looks like,” and to his stomach, “and have your last breaths be smelling your own guts.”

The cop’s eyes widened, and he started making all sorts of noises: sobs, whimpers, incomprehensible screams and babbles.

Molly put the edge of her knife to his throat. “I think I’ll start by skinning you. I’ve skinned chickens before, and you wouldn’t be too much different.”

She had pulled the blade a fraction of an inch when the man wailed again, directly into her ear.

Molly bit back a curse and settled for glaring at him. She stood, and glanced at JP. “Shut him up.”

JP grinned. “My pleasure.”

It took three solid hits before the bull got the idea and shut his mouth.

“Oh, it is a good thing you can’t see your arms, buttons.” JP shook his head. “You don’t seem that smart, but I’m sure you know which way your elbows bend.” JP smirked. “At least, which way they’re supposed to bend.”

Molly put her knife back to the man’s throat, this time continuing to hold it there. “Are you ready to talk now?”   


“I won’t tell you anything.” The words were a gasp, almost a croak. They definitely wouldn’t last.

Molly shrugged and started pulling her knife across his throat. She wasn’t going deep enough to kill him, no. She was just making him bleed.

For now.

“The chief,” the copper choked out. His words bubbled up out of him, much like the snot dripping from his nose. “I told the chief. Just about the one. I don’t know any others.”

Molly stood and examined her knife in the dim light. “Are you sure?”

“I swear.”

Molly glanced behind her to see Minx nodding. That bit of the information matched up, at least. The man hadn’t been to any other Greenhouses.

“Alright.” Molly put her hand on her hip. “Who was in the area when you told the chief?”

The man groaned. “No- nobody. I promise, I promise. Don’t hurt me anymore.” Those last words ended in a whimper.

Molly nodded. “That’s fair.” She turned, and walked off.

“Wait!” The bull shouted. “What are you- you’re going to let me go?”

Molly glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled. “I am, but he’s not.”

“WHAT? No, no, nO YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” The cop wailed. “PLEASE, KID, YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS!”

JP scowled at him. “You know, that’s what you guys said when it came to your job, and that cost my family their lives.”

*******

Molly laughed softly and walked back to Minx, even as the cop’s screams echoed behind her. “How long until Wade gets here?"

“Maybe ten minutes. You know how long it takes to wake him up.” Minx shrugged.

Molly raised her eyebrows and reached for a rag to start cleaning her knife. Her hands were shaking as she did so, but that wasn’t terribly unusual after she pulled her knife on someone.

“He’s grown up.” Minx observed, glancing away from JP and the bull. “Just think: four, almost five years ago, nobody could have seen he’d be doing this.”

Molly shook her head slowly, examining her knife again to make sure it was free of the blood. “No. He’s come a long way.”

“So have you.”

Molly looked over at Minx in surprise. “What?”

“You’re not the same girl you were when we first met.” Minx shrugged. “You’re not afraid of the world anymore. The world is afraid of you.”

Molly sighed and sheathed her knife. “If I’d known to carry a knife with me in those days, I’d never be here. I’d have slaughtered those men where they stood.”

“You did,” Minx reminded her. “It wasn’t a pretty sight to come across, but you did a thorough job. And if you hadn’t... well.” 

Molly shrugged. “Then I’d be with the thousands of other women who have disappeared across Boston’s history.”

“So would Krism.” Minx sighed. “I’m glad you took action. I don’t want to imagine where I’d be today if it wasn’t for her.”

Molly shuddered. “Let’s just not think about it.”

Minx smiled, and it was a very warm smile. “Deal.”

The door to the warehouse slid open, and Wade walked in.

“Good morning, dear,” Molly said.

Wade grumbled something unintelligible, but went over to her and gave her a kiss.

“We’re all done with him. JP’s getting some practice in right now, but if you wanted to make sure he knows the best way to finish someone off, that’d be nice.”

Wade grumbled something affirmative.

“I’m going to head home.” Molly looked at her hands and the blood on her gloves. “But first, I’m going to make sure everyone got to safety.”

“Alright, dear.” Wade nodded. “I’ll finish up here.” He stretched. “Keeters will be waiting for you when you get back.”

“Try not to be all night.”

Wade gave her an offended look. “Do I look like JP? No.”

“JP’s got more hair.” Minx murmured.

Wade shot her a sour look. “Hair is a sign of inexperience.”

Minx snorted. “Inexperience with what?”

Wade rolled his eyes and just walked over to JP. “Hey, hold up for a second. I know you want to beat him to a pulp, but you’ve still got to sleep. Let me show you how to do this right.”

Molly turned to Minx. “You ready?”

Minx nodded. “Let’s go check on the Orchids.”

The two walked to Minx’s automobile. “Most should have made their way to mine-” meaning the brothel Minx and Krism ran “-and the rest should be accounted for at the surrounding houses.” Minx shrugged. “Do you want to start closest and go farthest? I mean, I have to drop you off anyway, so I’ll let you come to my place in the morning and check over all the Orchids there, then.”

“That sounds like a plan.”


	26. Couples' Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's Tunes:  
> Welcome- John Coltrane  
> Soul Eyes- John Coltrane

_The Honor of your presence is requested at the union of_

_Matthew Patrick and Stephanie Cordato_

_On the date of the nineteenth of May, 1917_

_The reception will commence at 7 p.m._

_Dinner and dancing to follow_

The Tiny Box was unusually quiet as Mark and the crew finished up the last minute preparations for the date night event. There had been such an overwhelming support for the idea that Mark had decided to get reservations for the night (if only to make a reliable guest list). Now, with the restaurant looking clean and elegant, with no reminders of the guests he’d (politely) kicked out an hour ago, he could finally see this night going well..

“Mark, it’s fine. It all looks good, it’s ready to go,” Ethan assured him, straightening out his vest. “Just breathe for a minute, okay?”

Mark let out a long sigh, looking over the tables again. Brian was lighting the last of the candles, and Ethan was straightening out every place setting..

“Is anyone here yet?”

Ethan glanced to the front door and shook his head. “Not yet, no. It’s okay. We’ll be fine; there’s still twenty minutes. Amy’s here, you’re here, Brian and I are both here; Kathryn’s in the back if we need extra help, and Tyler’s ready to do whatever you need.” Ethan put a reassuring hand on Mark’s shoulder. “It’ll be a great night.”

Mark nodded. “Alright.” He gave one last look around the restaurant floor. All the chairs were in place. The lighting was beautiful, especially as Brian finished lighting the last candle. Someone had put on a record, providing the perfect ambiance. (Mark had wanted those two substitute musicians from before, but their manager wouldn’t allow it. One of the musicians had been kind enough to instead hand over a series of records with their music on it, though).

“Is the door unlocked?” Mark said suddenly.

“Yes,” Ethan nodded, “I got that. Don’t worry about it. As soon as people start showing up, we’ll know.”

As if on cue, the door opened. Both Mark and Ethan instinctively looked over.

“Would you look at that.” Jack glanced around the room with a smile. “We’re first to arrive.”

“There are still fifteen minutes until the night actually starts.” Mark chuckled.

Jack grinned. “Being early never hurt anyone.”

Ethan shook his head, though he smiled. “Here, I’ll show you to your seats.”

Jack exchanged a glance with Wiishu. “Assigned seating? This is fancy.”

“Oh, Brian and I have it down.” Ethan grinned, then frowned. “Plus, we didn’t want any of the couples getting into overly excited conversation or anything.”

Jack glanced at Brian as he walked past before returning his gaze to Ethan. “That makes sense.”

Right. Jack would know that Brian was in the dark about the illegal things that went on in the Tiny Box—Freddy’s, technically; but it was still the same building.

The door opened several times in the next minute, bringing in quite the variety of couples: Felix and Marzia in their fancy clothes, Robin and someone Mark had never met before (Jack had said her name was Kellie), and Ken and Mary (Mary looking much more amused about this whole thing than Ken).

“Why, again, did you make me come here?” Ken glanced around and frowned.

Felix chuckled softly. “My dear friend, you don’t think I forgot about your birthday?”

Ken sort of squinted at Felix. “I was kind of hoping you had.”

Felix shook his head with a decided smirk. “Don’t worry, you won’t be called out on it. I know better than that.”

Mark rolled his eyes.

Ethan walked up to Ken as Brian was getting Robin and Kellie settled next to Jack and Wiishu. “Fair warning, you’re going to get a cake.”

Ken glared at Felix. “You really put a lot of effort into this, huh.”

“It’s from Pansino’s Pastries, that one you really like.” Felix assured. “What, did you think I wouldn’t get you anything but your favorite?”

Ken sighed.

Mary laughed softly and patted his arm. “It’ll be alright. Just think, he could have done so much more.” Ken gave her an unamused look, and she laughed again. “Come on, let’s sit down.”

Felix turned to Mark. “I really do appreciate you helping me give that man what he deserves.”

Mark smiled. “Of course.” He glanced at Brian, who was waiting patiently to lead Felix and Marzia to their seats. “Go ahead and take a seat, we’ll be starting soon enough.”

Mark spent the next several minutes greeting other couples as they came in. There were quite a few from the same general lifestyle bracket as Felix (PJ and Sophie, though PJ wasn’t nearly as obvious about it as Felix often was), but most weren’t. Some tried to be much more quiet about their arrival (Wade and Molly—both of whom promptly relaxed some when they saw Tyler standing in the corner. Mark made a note to tell Tyler to stay in their view a lot, since this was the first time they’d appeared in public since the attempted hit on them and they were clearly still uneasy).

And then there were the Patricks.

The second MatPat and Stephanie walked through the door, MatPat holding it for her, a few faint “aww”s could be heard over the soft music.

Steph stopped and looked around, her already-present smile widening even more as MatPat stepped up next to her. She glanced at him as Brian greeted them, and the look the detective sent back made it clear he hadn’t even noticed the décor for the night—except for how it made her smile.

“That’s just about everyone.” Ethan said, coming up to Mark. Mark had that fond look on his face, the one he got sometimes when Freddy’s was bustling and everyone was happy—the one where Mark knew he’d done good. “We’re missing just one couple.”

Mark glanced over, his smile fading into a frown. “Who?” He glanced around the room. “This is everyone on the list.”

Ethan forced himself to keep a somber face as Tyler walked up to them. “Tyler’s noticed it too.”

Mark turned, and he froze when he saw Amy standing next to Tyler, dressed not in her work clothes but in a nice evening dress, a suit jacket in her arms.

Mark did that thing where he tilted his head slightly and gave her an exasperated smile. “Really?”

Amy held out the jacket. “Put it on over your vest.” She smiled.

“But-“ Mark glanced around the restaurant floor, but didn’t seem to notice the encouraging smiles PJ and Jack and Felix and Wade were giving him.

“We’ve got it covered.” Ethan took the jacket from Amy’s hands and forced it into Mark’s. “You’re just as deserving as a nice night as everyone else.”

“But-“

The doors to the back swung open once again, and Mrs. Fischbach emerged. Mark’s gaze flicked to her, then to Ethan. “You got my mom involved in this.”

“It’s like we knew you’d insist the floor needed a manager.” Ethan grinned.

Mark sighed, then nodded. In just a moment, he had the jacket on and Amy on his arm. He smiled at her. “Shall we?”

“Of course.” She smiled back.

Ethan and Tyler gave each other a subtle handshake, and Brian gave a grin from across the room.

As the night began full-swing, Tyler leaned over slightly to Ethan. “We did good.”

Ethan nodded. “Oh yeah.” He grinned.

Time to get to work.

Ethan hadn’t learned a lot about Felix from when the egg visited Freddy’s, not nearly as much as Jack or PJ or Mark knew about him, but he knew enough to know that the Felix who came to Freddy’s was not the Felix here now.

It was a subtle thing, at least until Ethan started noticing it. Felix was a little too relieved whenever Ethan came over with food or drinks or anything, as if immensely grateful for the pause in conversation it brought.

Once he noticed, though, Ethan started paying attention to everyone. If he could ease someone else’s discomfort by stopping by their tables more often to check on drinks or something, then he would totally do that.

Jack, PJ, and Mark seemed to notice Felix, because they kept sending him the occasional glance. PJ, sitting at the same table, seemed to be Felix’s biggest source of comfort, as the egg’s laugh became more genuine when it was in response to something PJ had said (and even more genuine when Marzia had made some sort of joke, though that was even rarer).

Ethan was glad he didn’t have any sort of public face. It looked stressful.

He paused as he refilled drinks, but forced himself to continue quickly enough that hopefully the couple didn’t notice.

He did have one pseudo-public face—that of a respectable waiter. Sure, he was a waiter, and he was respectable during the daytime, but Freddy’s at night. And most people didn’t know about that.

Ethan shook his head to himself as he took some empty plates into the back, where Tyler was almost ready with the main course.

“Is everyone ready for this?” Tyler asked, glancing up from cooking.

“Just about.” Ethan set the plates down and turned to take the first round of new plates out.

“Ethan.” Kathryn called from her place washing dishes. “Come here.”

Ethan walked over her. “Hey, how can I help?”

“Get that man out of the trash can.” Kathryn jerked her head towards the large bin where they had to dump spoiled food. It was empty at the moment, since Ethan had emptied it right before everything had started, but it was not a place where he’d expect to have someone hiding.

Ethan shook his head and walked over to the bin, only to look in and see a man in a familiar expressionless mask just sitting there.

Ethan blinked.

“It’s a trash job sometimes.” Cry said by way of explanation.

Ethan ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “You’re not trash, though.” He shook his head and offered Cry a hand. “Here, I’ll get you closer to him. You’re kind of far away as it is.”

Cry chuckled softly and took it, shedding the single crumpled piece of paper that had been sitting on him as he stood. “Where’re you taking me, kid?”

Ethan just gestured for Cry to follow and led him to the office.

Cry looked at the open door and shrugged. “This seems further away, but I’m guessing you’re not done.”

Ethan grinned and walked over to one of the bookcases, then tugged on the hidden latch. The secret door clicked softly, and Ethan slowly pulled it open enough for Cry to fit through.

Cry peered through the opening, but didn’t move to go through it yet. Hopefully he would recognize it as the bar area.

Then he nodded, gave Ethan a clap on the shoulder, and went through the space.

Ethan pushed the door closed as quietly as he could, then returned to the kitchen to hear Kathryn muttering about “Kjellberg and his ridiculous men.”

Ethan chuckled softly, then returned to work.

\-----

MatPat gazed at Stephanie, completely enraptured by her talking. It had been so long since they’d been able to do something like this, and he wanted to do nothing more than make sure she got the very best he could give her.

Did she know how beautiful she was in the candlelight? Well, she was usually beautiful, but was she aware how much more gorgeous she was now? Even if she was, he should tell her.

MatPat glanced at the table as one of the waiters refilled their drinks, only to notice her hand was just sitting there. The hand closest to him, too.

He put his hand on hers, wrapping his fingers around hers slightly.

Instantly, Steph flushed, and her gaze flicked around the restaurant. “Matthew,” she hissed, “with so many people around?”

He grinned and pulled their hands under the secrecy of the tablecloth. “Better?”

Her face and ears were still pink. “What if they see?”

“They won’t.” MatPat gave a cheeky smile. “And if they do, well, it _is_ couples’ night. Couples hold hands.” Usually in the privacy of their own home, but they did.

Steph flushed even more. “Matthew.”

He gave her hand a squeeze and turned his attention to the waiters as they brought out the main course. Steph gave a squeeze back, and then pulled her hand away.

“Steph.” MatPat whined softly.

“I need my hand to eat.” Steph rolled her eyes. “It’s not much of a dinner date if I don’t get the food.”

MatPat sent a grin her way, and she flushed all over again.

This was _fun._

They continued their conversation throughout the various courses of the meal, and MatPat couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t the only one giving their date subtle looks and the (not very hidden) light touches between the most bold of couples. (He could have sworn he saw PJ brush his fingers against his date’s arm as he reached for something on the table.)

MatPat leaned over to Steph, trying to make it as casual as possible. He wanted to try something.

“I love you,” he murmured in her ear.

The effect on her was immediate--she absolutely flushed, and glanced him with wide eyes and a tentative smile, as if asking what in the world had made him so bold this night.

In response, he slid his foot over and bumped hers before returning it to its place.

He was ready to be done with the flirting, at least until Steph’s ears stopped being so red (he didn’t want to embarrass her, after all, that ruined the fun).

And then Steph’s hand moved to sit on his knee.

He felt his own ears getting hot and glanced at her to see her giving him a decided smirk.

So _that’s_ how it was going to be.

This was going to be a fun night.


	27. Twirling Twos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Newly updated, as with every chapter!
> 
> Today's Tune:  
> It’s Time to Say Goodnight- Henry Hall

The meal ended, the waiters made quick work of pushing all the tables and chairs to the side of the room, and the music switched from jazz to something considerably more classical.

Sophie glanced up to see PJ watching her with a fond expression on his face.

“May I have this dance?” He was practically grinning with anticipation.

Sophie caught her breath. It was a little unsettling that she wasn’t sure if it was strictly because PJ stole her breath away, or because of her own growing suspicions. Still, it would be awfully rude to refuse, especially when he’d been kind enough to bring her along. He’d been nothing but a gentleman the whole night too, besides a sly touch here or there. She just couldn’t deny him.

Smiling prettily, she slipped her hand into his and stood with a light sweep of her dress. “Maybe just one.”

PJ’s smile faltered for a moment. “Just one?” He sounded devastated.

It took everything Sophie had not to giggle. “You’ll have to impress me if you want a second. Come on.” She gave a little tug, but waited patiently for him to follow custom and pull her out onto the makeshift dance floor. Gently, PJ settled his arm around Sophie’s waist, and she in turn slipped her arm across his shoulders. Even in heels, it was a bit of a stretch, and PJ quietly apologized. Sophie just laughed, smiling brightly. “Don’t worry about it. You can’t help being tall. Besides, I think it makes you look rather dashing.”

That seemed to do the trick, as his grip on her hand and waist became more confident. PJ smiled himself, even while his face still twitched slightly with nerves. Together, they began moving with the music, swaying and spinning in the classic 2-3 box step of the waltz. Sophie let her cheek slot in alongside the front of PJ’s shoulder, but she didn’t rest it there. She could feel his furtive glances at the back of her head and curled her arm a bit tighter around his shoulders.

She knew this was a bad idea. There was an awkwardness between them which went beyond mere butterflies or nerves. The comfortable ease they’d shared on their first date had diminished. Sophie just couldn’t let her guard down when so many things about PJ: the way he acted, dressed, his subtle wealth—it all rubbed her the wrong way. He was hiding something.

Sophie only wished he’d tell her whatever it was.

“Sophie? Are you, uh… is everything-”

“Oh, PJ, look over there at Madame Foxglove and Mr. Barnes. Aren’t they lovely together? I couldn’t imagine being so bold….” Sophie was quick to interrupt PJ’s concerned inquiry. Thankfully, his curiosity got the best of him, and his attention was thoroughly distracted. Internally, she sighed in relief.

Wade and Molly were engaged in a slightly more extravagant waltz nearby. Molly never was the type for simple and subdued, and Wade seemed all too happy to indulge her thirst for a little  _ more.  _ Holding each other by the hands, he pushed her out and pulled her back in, let her dip down all on her own. They extended their arms out to the sides and twirled around in a swirl of pleated skirts and experienced grace; truly a sight to behold on the floor as Molly spun and lightly kicked out with her dazzling heels.

“Am I making you dizzy, dear?” Molly asked, her voice just barely audible over the music, breathless. 

“Oh, always,” Wade answered with a fond smile and even fonder gaze.

“Look out, whirlwind comin’ through!”

It was the sing-song quip of Jack’s voice as he and Wiishu spun past in a wild flurry of fluffed skirts and swinging arms. They swayed in a deep dip to the left and right as they followed the steps, speed a bit faster than the tempo of the song. Neither appeared to care while other couples were forced to step further away or risk a minor collision. The two young natives of Europe were dancing to the beat of their own song and clearly having a grand time of it.

They bounced from one foot to the other, Jack releasing Wiishu so they could twirl about each other. They held hands, swinging their free arms while they hopped to-and-fro, giddy grins and bright eyes adorning their faces. Still gripping Wiishu’s hand, Jack led her into a spinning jump which sent her skirts flying, easily catching her up again to continue their dance. She laughed, utterly enthralled as she spun and jumped again. Grasping at her dress, Wiishu advanced on Jack, and he playfully stepped back with a laugh of his own.

“Going to attack me in front of all of these people, are ye?” he teased. They had paused, for just a moment, with Wiishu hosting a devious grin while she “cornered” her date.

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you? No, I don’t think I will. You have to catch me, first.” There was a glint in her eye, and then she was dancing away with another spin. He went after her, catching her hands up and lifting her into another twirling jump with a laugh.

“I’ll always catch you.”

“Honestly, Jack, show a little decency.” Felix murmured once he was sure they’d drawn close enough for Jack to hear over the music and chatter. When Jack merely sent him a wicked grin, he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Marzia’s chuckle drew his attention back.

“Relax. You like to spin and twirl me like that, when we’re at home alone. Let them enjoy it.” Her chiding was light and almost teasing; about as far from actual scolding as it could get. Still, Felix felt just a little miffed.

“Yeah, at home. Alone. He’s in public, he’s already got half the room staring at him…”

“Felix. Dear, relax. Look at me.” Marzia didn’t reach to cup at his cheek the way she longed to, because they  _ were  _ in public and in the middle of a dance. She’d heard enough whispers from the upper crust present without goading more. Thankfully, Felix had a hard time refusing Marzia most anything, and their gazes met. “It’s just one night. It’s a private affair. The few here, who would be willing to make a fuss, they’ll have forgotten about it by week’s end. Your friends are all here. They’re the important ones. Just relax, and enjoy the night with me. Come on, you’re falling out of step. Don’t worry about the others. Just focus on me. Here: two-three, two-three, two-three…”

Felix sighed, but honestly he was grateful. Marzia was one of the few people who could reel him back in whenever he began winding himself too tightly. It was just one night. A simple dance. He could stop worrying, and just hone his attention on what was important.

“Right, right. Two-three, two-three…” Silently, he mouthed three other words, face relaxing for just a second with a tender smile.

Marzia beamed, and she mouthed them right back as Felix spun with her out across the floor.

“Look. See? Even Felix is relaxing a little. Come on, Ken. You can’t still be upset with him for surprising you again.” Mary sighed from where her husband stiffly led her along amidst the dancing couples. His posture was too rigid, and she could tell he was just sliding through the motions.

“I’m not upset.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m not.”

“Of course not.”

“Mary.”

“Ken.”

The pair stared each other down for a few moments as they danced, but then Ken gave a little jump and a startled hiss.  _ “Ow.” _

“Oops.” Mary shot him a smirk and delicately slid her heel off his foot. She merely quirked a brow when he frowned at her, but of course he couldn’t maintain the expression for long. Not with her. He sighed.

“I just… you  _ know  _ I don’t like anything showy or grand or just… focused on me. I didn’t need anything for my birthday. He could have just gotten me a small gift if he was so insistent…” he muttered, huffy.

Mary chuckled. “This  _ is  _ his gift, Ken. And the cake. You know you’re going to end up eating nearly half of it, even if you scowl the entire time.”

Ken pursed his lips at that, but he couldn’t deny she was right. He really had a weakness for Pansino’s cinnamon apple bundt cake. With the layers of apple and cinnamon-sugar, who was he to resist? Just the thought of how the pecans on top would crunch set his mouth to watering.

“Ken. Ken. I know that look. You have to wait. For now, dance with me. Dance with me, and smile, and I’ll make sure they give you the biggest piece. I’ll tell them to cut it extra large, just for you.” Mary was still teasing, but Ken already appeared to be loosening up.

He scoffed lightly, however his expression and tone were affectionate. “You know me too well. Okay. I’ll try to relax and just enjoy things… but I’m still gonna glare at anybody who tries to sing.”

“Well, I suppose that can’t be helped. Just don’t go starting any trouble.” The couple spun lightly past Robin and Kellie, who were swaying a bit more daintily than the rest.

“Boy, there’s a couple of stiffs in here tonight, huh?” Kellie’s back was to Robin’s chest, their faces near cheek-to-cheek, while they dipped and swung their arms. He loosely gripped her hands when she extended them out to either side and led her into a graceful spin.

“I suppose it’s just how they are. Those ritzy types. More used to fancy balls and extravagant events, I can’t even imagine…” Kellie sighed as Robin pulled her close for a moment, only to take one of her hands so she could spread out away from him. They curved forward together, lifting legs in an elegant move before closing in once more. They dipped, scant inches separating them, but there was nothing lewd in the action. Robin traced fingers down Kellie’s arm and she smiled, letting him pull her back up for another spin.

“Oh, can’t you? Come on now. Can’t you picture us? Dressed up in a fancy tailored suit and a sparkling ballgown, me twirling you across a polished marble floor beneath a big, old crystal chandelier?” Robin coaxed, his hand on his waist now while he led her around.

Kellie scoffed a bit and tossed her head. “You’re crazy.”

“No, really. Think about it. Elegant music playing from live musicians, with tuxedos and classical instruments. Butlers walking around with flutes of expensive champagne and little snacks-”

“Hors d'oeuvres?”

“ _ Gesundheit.”  _ Robin grinned when Kellie sent him a perturbed look. “But yeah, those things. And everyone’s decked out with diamonds and pearls and silks, and everything’s glistening like fresh fallen snow under the moonlight. Can’t you imagine it?”

Kellie sighed and shook her head, letting Robin twirl her around in a broad circle with one hand. “Birdbrain. You read too many headlines.”

“Maybe. Hazards of being a newsie. At least it makes me educated.”

“Sass and smarts are not one and the same, Robin.”

“Nope. Fortunately, you got a man with both.” His grin returned.

“Is it fortune, really?” Kellie shot back with a light smirk.

Across the room, Jack and Wiishu were still spinning without any signs of slowing down. MatPat huffed. “Show-offs. Look at them, taking the spotlight-”

“You sound a little jealous, love.”

“No, just… hmm.” MatPat paused to think for a moment, then abruptly grasped at Steph’s hands. There was suddenly a determined gleam in his eye. “Steph. Let’s show them how it’s really done. Let me twirl you around. Come on. Please?”

Steph sighed. “Oh dear, I don’t know…”

“Please? You know you enjoy it. And I’ve been so busy, we haven’t had the chance in so long….”

Steph’s brows pinched a bit in consideration. She looked over MatPat’s shoulder at the wild couple. Jack and Wiishu certainly did seem to be having a lot of fun. But she knew they could do better. A similar determination leaked into Steph’s expression and she returned MatPat’s eager grip. “Let’s do it.”

MatPat’s face lit up with excitement, and he swept her out onto the dance floor. He made certain they were in close enough proximity to be noticed by the younger couple, but far enough away that they wouldn’t pose the risk of crashing into each other. Once he’d caught Jack’s eye, he gave the softest hint of a smirk and slipped behind Steph. She rested one hand on her hip, elbow out, and raised the other up as her head tilted back.

Immediately, before they’d even begun to truly dance, they were commanding the attention of many in the room. MatPat’s hands hovered at Steph’s waist. She swung her arms up in an arc and then down, turning her head to meet face-to-face with MatPat as he leaned in; their noses nearly touched. The passion between them, in that one moment, could be felt by the entire room.

Steph swung her arms up again, but this time MatPat followed her movements. He caught her hands when they came back to rest at her stomach and lifted them up, releasing one so she could spin out away from him. They swayed back and forth like that for a moment, before Steph broke away to twirl around him. They didn’t touch again for several moves until MatPat abruptly wrapped an arm around her waist. Steph looped one around his neck and in an elegant spin he lifted her off the ground, her skirts trailing after her. There was a little “ooh” from the room, and out of the corner of his eye MatPat spied Jack straightening his jacket.

The challenge had been accepted.

Many couples retired to their tables, either from fatigue or to give the dueling pair some more space. Jack and Wiishu were hopping and swinging about with a newfound fervor, while MatPat lifted Steph several more times and dipped her low. He hugged her close with one arm, nonetheless matching the appropriate steps of a waltz. It was young and vibrant and elegant and sensual, and they’d drawn the eye of every onlooker in the room.

Even Mark watched, a bit enthralled, where he’d been dancing serenely with Amy in a more secluded corner. He was never the type to turn down a good competition himself, and part of him was just itching to lead her over and join in the fray. It looked like a lot of fun.

Amy, apparently noticing his drift in attention, decided it was time to pull it back. She broke away from him, dancing backwards but reaching out. There was a different kind of challenge in her gaze.

Mark’s attention indeed snapped back at the loss, and immediately he understood. He smiled, sheepishly, and danced after Amy’s retreating form. Delicately, he caught her outstretched hand, pulling her back in. Their other hands rose to join as well and they stayed like that, pulling out and pushing in together with the song’s easy rhythm. When they drew together, it was chest-to-chest, arms extended out to either side and faces close.

Mark’s heart swelled every time it happened. “Sorry, I just…”

“You want to dance. I get it. I’m happy you do. You should cut loose like this more often. But…” Amy smiled, and it curled at the corners of her mouth; crinkled beside her eyes the way Mark always loved. “Right now, you’re all mine, and I want to be all yours. Just dance here with me? Just us? For one song.”

Mark’s mouth went dry. He could hear his heart hammering away in his chest, and it took everything he had to maintain his grip on Amy’s hands. He pulled her in close again, and his breath hitched softly. “...well, when you say it like that… the only words left in my vocabulary are yes, and…”

He spun, releasing one of her hands to wrap an arm around her waist, and then dipped her low. Their faces hadn’t separated an inch. “...something admittedly too scandalous to reveal in public.”

A light pink filtered into Amy’s cheeks, and then she laughed. It wasn’t just music to Mark’s ears. It was akin to birdsong, wind chimes in a gentle breeze, and the feeling of sunlight on his skin. It was rejuvenating;  _ she  _ rejuvenated him and in a moment of clarity, he re-experienced the depth of their love.

She gave her head a little shake. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“Do you want me to?” The grin blooming on Mark’s face was devilish.

“Mark!” Amy laughed again, lightly swatting his arm, and he pulled her back up onto her feet. Still, she sighed, and as they began to spin again she indulged in letting her cheek press ever-so-softly against his shoulder. It was hard not to close her eyes. “You’re too much, sometimes.”

“You wouldn’t want me any other way.”

“She’s the only woman I know who would have you such a way,” came Mrs. Fischbach’s quip from the kitchen door.

“Mom!”

Soon enough, though—too soon for some—the dancing came to an end, and tables were returned to their original positions. There was no clear winner of the dance-off from an outside perspective, but both couples would go home feeling like they were the true winners.

“You know,” MatPat leaned over to Steph as a cake was cut and pieces were given out, “Jason would have been so embarrassed to watch that go down.”

Steph gave him a surprised look. “He would have, wouldn’t he. He might have even started heckling you.”

MatPat chuckled. “There’s no might about it.” Jason would have heckled and would have had a blast doing it. And then he would have stolen MatPat’s cake.

Which meant it was a good thing he wasn’t here—MatPat would have had to steal it right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't follow us over on royalflushstories on tumblr, we've got a new development that we announced there and haven't here. 
> 
> https://royalflushstories.tumblr.com/post/161220828021/trulymightypotato-you-remember-this-poster-from
> 
> I don't know how to make links in the end notes, so you're just going to have to copy that and follow the link. The post there explains everything with this, so go ahead and check it out.


	28. Unknowns and Ultimatums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It should be updated with every new chapters we post!
> 
> Today's Tune:  
> Muldoon- Branford Marsalis Quartet  
> The Lives We Tried to Reclaim- Vincent Diamante

There were many beautiful things in Boston: the architecture, the trees in the fall, the stars, the crisp autumn air.

But none of it had anything on Sophie.

That didn’t mean PJ didn’t enjoy it all the same. He’d parked his automobile in a spot where it would overlook the ocean and see the delicate sliver of the moon all in one go. Sophie could admire that sight, and he would be able to see the much more beautiful sight of the ocean, the moon, and Sophie.

Neither of them said much for a few minutes, giving PJ time to think.

Something had clearly been bothering Sophie at the Tiny Box. It was one of the reasons he’d decided to leave as soon as they’d had their cake, in case that something had been one of the other couples.

But no. They were here, and she was still distant.

Had he done something wrong? Had something happened with her family? Was everything okay?

PJ leaned back in his seat, wrapping his hand around the small, flat box sitting in his pocket.

“Sophie?” He looked over at her, some part of him admiring how beautiful she looked in the moonlight. Well, there wasn’t much in the way of moonlight from the waning crescent in the sky, and it was rather colder than he’d expected, but she was still beautiful.

Sophie glanced over, her arms going around herself. “Yeah?”

“You could have told me you were cold.” PJ pulled off his jacket and slid it over her shoulders. “We can’t have that.”

Sophie gave a brief smile, but... there was definitely something wrong.

PJ scooted closer to her and put his arm around her. She was as stiff as a board—she really should have told him she was cold!

“You didn’t have to do all of this.” Sophie gradually leaned into him, and he smiled at her.

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t want to share this night with anyone else.”

Sophie smiled at that, but once again it wasn’t her full smile; it wasn’t the smile he’d seen so much at Ramo d’Olivo.

What was he supposed to do? He wasn’t going to say “you’re not smiling right,” because that would not be sensible. But she was his girlfriend. What kind of boyfriend was he if he couldn’t at least comfort her?

“Is everything alright?” That was a reasonable thing to say.

Sophie looked up at him (this ridiculous height difference was starting to get annoying) and gave a reassuring smile that didn’t quite manage to reassure PJ. “I’m just cold, is all.”

PJ pulled her closer, though the side where Sophie wasn’t was starting to get quite chilly. “Let’s fix that.”

Sophie let out a sigh. “It’s a beautiful night.”   
  


“Yes.” PJ looked down at the top of her head. “Not as beautiful as you, though.”

She flushed a bit at that and huddled deeper into the recesses of PJ’s jacket—which, while perfectly tailored to fit him, made her look like a child playing in her father’s clothes.

It was absolutely endearing.

“What’s your favorite part of tonight?” PJ finally asked.

Sophie gave him a startled look, and he gave an apologetic smile in return. “Just thought we might be warmer if we tried talking.”

Sophie chuckled. Again, it sounded just a little strained. “Sure.” She sighed and let out a long breath. “I liked dinner.” She sent a smile to PJ, and it felt much more genuine this time. “I’ve always felt safe there, whether it’s the Tiny Box or Freddy’s, and it’s where I first got to see you play.” Sophie shook her head. “What in the world possessed you to try and keep up with Jack’s drumming?”

PJ raised an eyebrow. “Why, Sophie! I’m offended. What kind of bassist would I be if I hadn’t tried to keep up?”

Sophie reached and pulled his left hand into view, then brushed her fingers over his. “Well, you wouldn’t have had these wounds. They’ve only just healed.” She paused and frowned. “You seemed to be favouring your left hand that night. Is it alright?” She slowly turned it over in her hands until PJ wrapped his fingers around hers.

“Just an old injury is all. I... generally try to avoid thinking about it.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment on that, instead running her thumb over the back of PJ’s hand.

“What was your favorite part of the night?” Sophie finally asked, shivering into PJ’s side.

“Waiting to give you this.” PJ pulled his hand out of Sophie’s to pull the small box out of his pocket.

Sophie looked at it, clearly surprised. “What- PJ, what is that?”

“Well,” PJ held it out to her, “I couldn’t think of a good way to tell you exactly how special you are to me, so...” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck.

Sophie turned the box over in her hands, then cracked it open. As soon as the moon lit the contents, she gasped.

Pearls. He’d given her pearls.

Sophie looked up at PJ, starting to really wish she’d never even agreed to come with him tonight. Now what was she supposed to do? “PJ...”

“You’ve probably gotten a lot of gifts over the years, I know.” PJ’s hand covered her own, tilting the box some, and then he pulled the string out of the box. “But I couldn’t help it. We’ve only been dating a couple of weeks, but they’ve been the most magical weeks I’ve ever had.”

Sophie pulled the pearls through her fingers, and for a moment was enthralled by the way they felt, by the extraordinary smoothness to them, by the way they were so clearly  _ real  _ and not some of the oh-so-popular fake ones.

And then she noticed the color.

They weren’t white pearls. They were distinctly pink, even under the dim light of the moon.

How had PJ gotten his hands on these? They were such a rare thing.

“Do you like them?” PJ asked, a little breathless.

Sophie glanced up at him, only to see him giving her that wide-eyed and eager look.

He must have gotten them by some legitimate means, right? A man that sincere and adorable couldn’t really be a part of Boston’s mafia. Could he?

“They’re beautiful.” This was definitely true.

A grin split across PJ’s face, and his entire face seemed to scrunch up with inexplicable joy.

Cautiously, Sophie put on the necklace. The pearls were rather cold against her neck, once again reminding her that there was just no legal way PJ should have been able to get his hands on them.

PJ’s expression turned to one of concern, and he pulled her close. “You’re too cold here. Let’s head back. We can keep talking on the way, but we’ve got to get you to some warmth.”   
  


Sophie let herself laugh at the absurdity of the comment. “I’m wearing your jacket, though.”

“Right. Then let’s get me to some warmth.” PJ flashed a grin at her, and she couldn’t help but smile back. Strange, how he had that effect on her.

As they were driving back, though, Sophie’s thoughts began to wander once again.

Felix had said the people most likely responsible for the attempt on Wade and Molly’s lives was the Liguori Family, and PJ’s last name was Liguori. Someone had picked off the men who had tried to kill them, and PJ had been gone on a family emergency. That could all be coincidence, right?

Right?

PJ was talking about something, but she couldn’t bring herself to listen, instead letting her gaze travel around the inside of the automobile. It was nice. Incredibly nice, actually; likely the best money could buy.

How could a man who played bass at a speakeasy afford something like this? Mark payed a lot, she was sure of that, but it wouldn’t be enough for  _ this. _ And sure, he could take other jobs, but... even then. Not this. And the pearls... Sophie’s hand drifted to the necklace, and she absently started rolling them between her fingers. How much had they cost? How rich was PJ that he’d given her the necklace and not even thought about the consequences?

“Sophie?” PJ’s voice came softly.

She looked over, only to see him looking at her with concern clear on his face. Instantly, she wanted to say “keep your eyes on the road while you’re driving,” but then she realized they were, in fact, sitting still.

They were on her street, just outside her house.

“Sorry.” Sophie let out a breath. “I’m more tired than I thought from the night out.” Hopefully he’d buy that excuse.

“Alright.” PJ gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll walk you to the door.” He moved to get out, likely to walk around and open her door for her (he was an excellent gentleman, after all).

“PJ?” His name slipped out before she could stop herself.

PJ instantly looked over. “Yes?”

“Can you... can you do something for me? Answer a question, I mean.”

_ Don’t say yes. Make this easy on me, don’t say yes. _

PJ nodded. “Sophie, I’d do anything for you.”

Sophie closed her eyes and dropped her head back in her seat. “...why didn’t you tell me you were in the mafia?”

PJ wasn’t sure if he was more alarmed by the words coming out of Sophie’s mouth—how had she learned, was this going to be another Wald scenario—or by the way she said them. How her voice was dull, quiet,  _ resigned. _ She knew, and nothing he could do or say would convince her otherwise.

“I...” PJ ran a hand through his hair, staring at her helplessly. “...I didn’t even think about it.” Not at first, anyway; not until Jordan had found out PJ was planning on taking her to couples’ night and had insisted on picking out his outfit (“It’s got to be perfect, okay.”). That had only been a few days ago.

“I forgot.”

Well, as excuses for “why you didn’t tell your girlfriend you were a part of organized crime” went, that was probably one of the worst ones.

“You forgot.” Sophie’s voice was unmistakably bitter. “How do you forget something like that, PJ?”

“I don’t think about it when I’m with you.” He stared helplessly at his hands. “I just... I barely notice the world around us when we’re together, and the Family is so far removed it just...”

“The Family.” The way Sophie said it, something twisted and broke deep inside PJ. “The people at Freddy’s are your family. Jack and Mark and Molly and Felix… they treat you like family, PJ. They love you.”

PJ glanced up to see Sophie looking at him, eyes steely and hard and oh-so-hurt.

“Sophie-”

“Did you know your precious  _ Family _ was going to try to kill Wade and Molly?” Sophie snapped. “Did you decide power and- and wealth was more important than the people who took you in without question, who have given you everything they have?”

She didn’t know. She didn’t  _ know. _

“I had no choice.” PJ sagged in his seat. He’d had to give the order to make sure the Family would be okay—and look how well that had turned out for him.

Sophie froze, her eyes widened, and in that moment, PJ knew.

She scrabbled for the door, and tears started sliding down her face.

“How could you, PJ?! How  _ could you. _ ”

PJ hung his head. “I didn’t have a choice.” The words sounded weak, pathetic, even to his own ears.

“They’re _ family,” _ Sophie sobbed, “and you ordered  _ their deaths. _ ”

PJ looked up. “Sophie, please.” He had to get her to stay; he had to convince her.

Sophie’s door opened, and she slid out in a hurry. “I’m sorry, PJ. We’re done.” The door slammed, and she was gone, taking off down the sidewalk and vanishing into her house before PJ could even find his own door handle to chase after her.

She was gone.

Just like that, she was gone.

Sophie slammed the door to her house, locking it as she slid to the floor. Tears were already streaming down her face. Why hadn’t he told her? And why was he so convinced he hadn’t had a choice? Of course he’d had a choice, he’d been the one to give the order!

Her hand landed on her throat, and the pearls sitting there.

No.

Sophie tugged at them, but they wouldn’t come off—they were getting stuck on the clasp on her dress; they were getting stuck in her hair.

She wanted them off. She wanted every last trace of PJ, of that man, gone. She wanted it all gone.

And then, very suddenly, the necklace gave. It gave with an audible  _ snap _ .

Pearls went rolling all over the floor, scattering under furniture and into corners and onto rugs. A few flew and landed on top of things (one sent a vase wobbling), but mostly it was just the sound of pearls skittering over the floor.

Sophie clutched the necklace, clutched the pearls that were still in her hand, and sobbed.

\-----

PJ stared at the dark house in front of him. Never had it seemed so forbidding. He  _ lived _ there.

But it was so much more than that, now.

It was the headquarters of the Family. It, with its dark windows and heavy silence, represented everything about him that had driven Sophie away.

Sophie.

What was he supposed to do without her? His heart ached so much from her last words that his entire chest felt like it was caving in on itself. This couldn’t be right. This was wrong.

And it hurt. Oh, it hurt.

PJ curled over the steering wheel and cried. It hurt like nothing had ever hurt before. He’d given the order for his friends to die, and that had hurt, but not as badly as this. He’d been betrayed by his childhood best friend and almost murdered by him, and that had hurt. That had  _ really _ hurt, it hurt so much he could barely bring himself to think about it.

And even that didn’t hurt as much as this.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, exhausting himself from tears and heartbreak, and he wasn’t sure how long he would have gone on doing so if the passenger door hadn’t opened.

PJ’s head snapped up, and he glanced over to see Jordan settle himself into the passenger seat.

“I’m guessing she didn’t like the automobile,” Jordan said simply.

PJ choked on a laugh. Jordan, after all, had been the one to get this for PJ. On orders from the godfather, undoubtedly, but all the same.

“What happened?” Jordan’s hand went on his shoulder, and then PJ was crying all over again.

“Did she break up with you?” Jordan finally asked.

PJ managed a nod.

“Ohhh.” Jordan sighed. “That’s rough, bud. That’s really rough.” A pause. “...Did she tell you why?”

“What does it matter,” PJ replied bitterly, “she hates me. She hates a part of who I am—a part I can’t change. Sophie won’t ever be coming back.” His voice hitched on the last line, and with tears stinging his eyes he yelled, fists pounding the steering wheel.

Jordan just sat there, quietly waiting.

“So. You wanna talk about it?”

PJ leaned back against the seat. For a moment, the streetlight traced the twin lines of tear-tracks on his cheeks. “What can I say.”

“Well, for starters, why don’t you tell me what it is she hates about you.”

PJ raised a hand (it was pale and ever so slightly shaky, and not just from the cold) then waved vaguely at himself.

“You just gestured to all of you,” Jordan pointed out sourly, “and last I checked she liked most of what you had to offer. Please, tell me. Was the car too much. I’m honestly concerned, because now I can’t think of any other reason.”

PJ turned his head slowly, not even bothering to lift it from the headrest. “No, Jordan. It wasn’t the car.”

“It was the suit, then, wasn’t it? I knew I should’ve picked out the-”

“She figured out I’m in ‘the mafia’,” PJ rubbed at his left arm, clenching his fist. “And she figured out I’d ordered the hit on Molly and Wade. Do you think,” and now he sat up, and turned to face Jordan, “do you think, if I’d told her myself and sooner… that she…”

“Maybe. But she should be prepared for it, wouldn’t you say? Being Italian means you might find yourself dating the underboss one day. It happens more than you think.” Jordan grinned—then frowned when PJ’s expression darkened.

“Please tell me Sophie’s Italian.”

Subconsciously, PJ flexed his hand.

“PJ. Is she, or is she not, from an Italian family.”

There was another long silence.

“Her last name is Newton,” PJ said, sounding utterly defeated. “I knew before I started courting her.”

Jordan lifted a fist into the air, nearly slamming it down on the dashboard, then seemed to reconsider. Instead, he settled for muttering a few curse words under his breath.

And then he paused. “Why'd you call them ‘Wade and Molly’?”

PJ froze, only to have Jordan give him a reassuring pat. “Look, all your secrets are safe with me. You know that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that we have a blog on Tumblr just for this series! It's [Here!](https://royalflushstories.tumblr.com/)
> 
> On Tumblr, we also have a character guide for those that get confused often on the humongous cast we have for the series (It ain't my fault >.>).


	29. "Decreasing Depravity"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It should be updated with every new chapters we post!
> 
> Today's Tune:  
> Blue Moon- Dave Brubeck

_ Wednesday, October 10, 1923 _

_ The overall crime rate in Boston has taken a surprising dip these past few weeks. Specifically, organized crime. Petty crime is still at its normal levels. _

_ The reasons for this lowered crime rate is unknown. Perhaps there are problems with leadership, or one of the mobs have deliberately chosen to lower their activity to remain undetected. It could even be a pact of some sort, though we don’t know how likely that is. _

_ If it is a pact, the McLaughlin Boys apparently weren’t invited to the meeting, as the number of their symbols carved into surfaces near blatant crime hasn’t changed. It hasn’t increased, either: this suggests they have no intention of stepping in to fill the now-open spaces of crime. _

_ This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil. _

_ Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column! _

MatPat let out a long breath and darted across the street, barely dodging several automobiles and bikes in the process. He should have waited until it was clear, yeah, but then he might not have made it in time.

MatPat stepped through the door, a cheerful bell announcing his arrival. An equally cheerful face beamed at him from over the counter.

“Detective Patrick! I was worried you weren't going to make it in time.” Rosanna Pansino, owner of the highly-favored Pansino's Pastries, pretended to wipe her forehead. “Whew.”

MatPat chuckled and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, I didn't. You're all closed up now.”

Miss Pansino put her hands on her hips. “We can't have that, now can we?” She shook her head. “I'm not letting you leave without the cake you ordered.”

MatPat tipped an imaginary hat. “I really do appreciate it.”

She laughed softly and pulled a cake box from somewhere MatPat couldn't quite see. “One birthday cake, as ordered.” She grinned. “Oh, since you mentioned he's fond of wolves, I decorated it with a few. Consider that addition my gift to Detective Bluemoon.”

MatPat grinned as he pulled out his wallet. “I'm sure he'll love it.”

Miss Pansino set the cake box on the counter and slid it towards him. “So does he know to expect this every year?” She bounced a little as she took the payment.

“Not yet, no. It's the first year, so I'm surprising him.” MatPat grinned a very self-satisfied grin.

“Ooo. Doesn't he always follow you, though? Where is he?”

“I roped a few friends of his into helping.”

\-----

“Come on, keep up!” Patrck called over his shoulder.

“Stop moving so fast, then!” Gar called back, then muttered a quick apology to the woman he'd possibly deafened with that action.

“Nope!”

Gar bit off a curse and darted neatly through the crowd to catch up with his friend.

He was glad he'd left Dante home today. The corgi would not have enjoyed Gar's fast pace and unpredictable path between all these people.

Now and again Gar slowed, knowing all too well Patrck wasn’t expecting Gar to catch up quite so soon. Everyone at the precinct said Patrck was the fastest. And by the time Gar finally decided to catch up with Patrck close to a mile and a half later, he had a new appreciation for just how quickly Patrck could move.

Patrck gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder while Gar leaned against a building.

“Sorry. Should have listened when you told me to slow down.”

Gar shook his head. He’d caught that glint of a cheeky smile. “It's okay.” He slowly stood off from the wall, forcing his breathing to remain heavy. “How do you move that fast?”

“Oh, I got used to running as a kid. People couldn't get mad at me if they couldn't see me.”

Gar frowned, catching the implications. “That's horrible.”

Patrck shrugged. “I can't do much about it. People who look at me are going to see Japanese, and nothing else.” He paused and gave Gar a smile. “Most people. There are some decent ones out there, who know how to just see me.”

“You're my friend. I wouldn’t do that; I couldn’t be mean to you.”

“You're not mean to anyone. And that's great for making friends, but what's going to happen the first time someone tries to kill you for being a bull?”

Gar shrugged. “I'll fight back. I've been practicing for the next time MatPat asks to see how much I can do.”

“Aww, he cares.” Patrck glanced around the alley entrance they were standing next to. “Or he doesn't want to file paperwork. Can't blame him, that stuff is awful.”

“Oh, I'm well aware.” Gar shook his head. “He makes me do most of it.”

Patrck gave another shoulder pat and walked into the alley. “This way.”

“What are we even doing?” Gar asked, following warily. Alleys weren’t the safest places around. 

"We're trying to see if we can find evidence of Faceless existing."

"Of course they don't. They were made up to explain away those unsolvable cases."

"We both know that, but I'd rather be on a wild goose chase than dealing with actual criminals."

Gar sighed. “Okay, but why am I joining you on this?”   


Patrck shrugged. “I don’t make the orders, I just follow them. Now come on.”

\-----

The whole office was decorated for Gar’s surprise party. The cake MatPat had fetched was already sitting on Gar’s desk, waiting in its box for when Patrck would finally bring Gar back to the office.

He had to make sure everything was perfect. Gar had worked so hard since his arrival, and it was a shame he had to work on his birthday, so MatPat was going to make it the best birthday the kid had ever had.

“You know,” Bob said as MatPat paced the length of the area once again, “I’m glad you got a new partner. It’s a lot of fun watching you get so worked up over this.”

MatPat sent him a grin. “You guys could do it with your partners.”

“We could. Where did you send him off to anyway?”

“Oh, I told Patrck to lead him around town, buy us some time to get everything ready.”

“Clever. What if by some random chance they actually find something?” 

“Then good job on their part.” MatPat shrugged, even as he started walking to where Marie was carefully distributing little packages of shredded paper. This was clearly going to be high-quality confetti and a high-quality celebration, with how it was taking place at work and all.

MatPat had managed to get special permission from the chief to let Dante be inside for the party, though the reason the man agreed was probably because he didn’t know how often Gar snuck Dante in to begin with. (MatPat certainly wasn’t going to tell on him.)

Dante gave a small bork as MatPat walked up, then sort of paced around the legs of Mr. Bluemoon.

Honestly, the biggest miracle had been getting him to come. He was fully supportive of Gar being a detective (though it was a little strange he insisted Gar call whenever he was going to be out late), but MatPat had never really had the chance to talk to Gar’s father much. They’d had a few passing conversations, but most of what MatPat knew of Mr. Bluemoon came from Gar.

Which is to say, not much at all.

Mr. Bluemoon seemed a bit uncomfortable in the station, but so did Marie, so that wasn’t too surprising. It generally wasn’t a place people liked to spend extended periods of time in.

Speaking of the station, MatPat sent one last look around.

“It’s all ready to go,” Bob said reassuringly. “And Patrck’s supposed to have him back in ten minutes or so.”

“Don’t worry about it, Matthew.” Steph walked over and stood next to him, getting an excited bounce from Dante (apparently he very much loved the pets she gave). “It’ll be perfect.”

\-----

“By the way, who sent us on this nonsense?” Gar asked as Patrck finally led them back to the station.

“Oh, I don't think that's important.” Patrck waved off the question—with a literal wave of his hand. Then he paused at the door and looked at Gar. “Really, though, thank you for being my friend. Without you I'd pretty much just have Marie. And Ophelia, but there's only so much a cat can do.”

“That's what friends are for.” Gar smiled. “I'll do my best to help you out no matter what.”

Patrck's smile seemed a bit sadder at that, but then it was gone and he was pushing his way inside. 

Was something new bothering Patrck? Sure, he didn't have to tell Gar all his troubles, but he'd seemed a bit more down than usual lately.

Gar shook his head and followed inside. 

What had MatPat been up to while he’d been spending the last few hours with Patrck? Had he gone home early? That would be good for him, especially if the station rumours of just how bold MatPat had been with Steph at the couples’ night were true. Which they probably were; Gar had walked in on too many not-very-hidden moments to think otherwise.

_ Bork. _

Wait. What was Dante doing here? Gar had left him home with his father, right?

That was when he looked up from his regular examination of the floor to see several familiar faces grinning at him—including, strangely enough, his father's.

And there was a cake, nestled in its little box and sitting on his desk.

Then came a chorus of “Happy Birthday”s, and he had to awkwardly stand there while they sang to him, and then MatPat was pushing him towards the cake.

Gar's father chuckled slightly, and Gar sent a helpless look his way, only to get a smile in return.

“Happy birthday, Gar.” Patrck smirked and dropped a handful of confetti on Gar's hair. “MatPat was the one to send us on that fake job.”

Gar brushed confetti out of his hair. “I'm glad we didn't actually have anything to find.”

MatPat laughed. “It was your first Faceless crime.”

Gar let himself smile, trying to ignore the odd look his father sent his way. “I didn't know you could set up those things.”

“Oh, definitely.”

Steph laughed, and MatPat sent her a hurt look.

“You can't even organize your sock drawer!”

“How dare you expose me like that in public.” MatPat put a hand to his chest, as if deeply offended.

“And you lost your glasses three times last night.” She shook her head. “Such a terrifying criminal.”

Several people were laughing by now, and Dante started barking at them all.

“Seriously, though,” MatPat said as he smiled, “I had to get you out of the office to get this set up.” He took a deep breath. “Garuku Bluemoon, you are the best partner in solving crime I ever could have asked for. Don't ever forget how great you are.” Then MatPat grinned a self-pleased grin. “Get used to this, by the way. I'll do it every year you're around.”

Gar squirmed slightly. “You don’t have to.”

“He’s going to.” Steph assured. “He did it with Jason too, so it’s not like you’re special.”

“Stephanie!” MatPat looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t just say it like that.”   


Gar laughed softly.

It was still a little awkward to remember he wasn’t MatPat’s first partner, and more than a little sad when he remembered what had happened to Jason, but that was okay. It would be weird if it were otherwise.

But looking around, and seeing how  _ happy _ MatPat was to have orchestrated this whole thing… well, that eased quite a few of Gar’s fears on the matter. Combined with what had happened when they’d gone to visit Jason’s widow, he felt comfortable, now. 

Things could be better, yeah; and he still had his worries—but this party MatPat had thrown had pulled the worst of Gar’s concerns from his shoulders. He wasn’t unwanted. He wasn’t here just because he’d been assigned to MatPat, despite the man’s previous assurances about that.

This was good.

Gar was broken from his thoughts by more confetti being dumped on his head, and he sent an incredulous look to Patrck. Patrck laughed, only to get a handful of confetti dumped down his uniform by Marie.

Gar couldn’t help it. He laughed, and not a reserved laugh. He just laughed.

Dante started barking again, making Patrck laugh, and then Bob was laughing and it was just  _ so great _ that Gar didn’t even mind that he’d ended up sitting on the floor laughing so hard.

Dante jumped up onto him, and Gar grinned at him, then at his dad, then at pretty much everyone.

“Oh!” MatPat said abruptly, and several heads snapped to look behind Gar. 

Gar gently pushed Dante off of him as MatPat hurried forward.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” MatPat said, and Gar stood to see who it was.

Associate Judge Thomas Fischbach. Of course.

Tom smiled as he looked at everyone. “Oh, I heard about this. Just wanted to stop by and offer my own congratulations to Detective Bluemoon.”

Gar dipped his head and smiled. 

“I also wanted to give something to Detective Bluemoon to celebrate the occasion.”

Everyone watched Tom with interest while he fished through his coat pockets for a package, with Gar especially curious. What did the Associate Judge get for him? Being only the trainee under MatPat, Gar didn’t have that kind of working relationship with Tom. He only saw him every now and then due to his job, so it was a bit of a surprise that the Associate Justice would be getting him a gift.

As Gar took the small package from Tom, he noticed that Tom’s hands were slightly shaking. When he looked into Tom’s eyes, he saw hesitation behind the smile he wore. Gar blinked. Did this gift mean that much to the Associate Judge?

Slowly and carefully, Gar lifted the covers of the package and reached inside to pull out… a small corgi statuette.

Gar stared at the small replica of a dog before he lifted his gaze to Tom’s expectant face.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

Tom’s smile flickered a bit, his eyes betraying a hint of disappointment. “Was it not good enough? I-”

“No, no, I love it!” Gar hastily cut Tom off before he could get the wrong idea. “It’s just- I never expected you of all people to get me something. Honestly, you shouldn’t have.”

As much as he tried to be subtle about it, the relief on Tom’s face was clearly evident. He rubbed the back of his head while chuckling off to the side nervously.

“Oh, thank god. Don’t mention it, though. It was the least I could do to show my appreciation for your services to this city. If anything, it was my brother who picked out the gift.”

Sounds of chuckling came behind him, and Gar turned around to find that it was Bob.

“You can always trust the Fischbachs to have the manners of men from the court of the Queen of England herself,” he remarked.

“True. It’s what you would expect from the young Associate Justice and the co-owner of a well-respected restaurant.” MatPat shot Tom a grin while the aforementioned judge waved off their words.

“It’s just common courtesy. That’s all, and I wouldn’t assume less from my dear brother.” A fond look came upon Tom’s face. “But really, it was Mark who picked out the little corgi statuette; all I did was consult him about Detective Bluemoon’s special occasion. He does put a great deal of thought into what he does, even if it may not seem like it most of the time.”

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short either, Judge Fischbach.” 

It was the first time Mr. Bluemoon had really spoken up during the little party, and his voice gently commanded the attention of the entire room. Tom looked distinctly uncomfortable as he met his eyes. Now and again even Gar couldn’t read past the surface of his father’s expression—this was one of those times.

“To serve as one of the honorable judges of Boston at your age and circumstance… you must be very prominent in the eyes of the higher-ups. That’s something to be admired for.”

The whole room knew Tom didn’t know what to say. Perhaps those words had been told to him by his brother—or maybe his father, before he passed. But for Gar’s father to speak them in such a straightforward manner… it had clearly shocked the young judge.

“T-thank you, sir.” 

Tom gave a sort of a bow, and Mr. Bluemoon nodded. 

A silence followed after that exchange, and it was only broken after a few moments by Tom as he started to turn around to leave.

“I’m terribly sorry to cut my visit short, but I must get going; there’s much work to be done in the morning. Once again: Happy Birthday, Detective Bluemoon.”

Gar nodded. “Thank you, and thank you again for the gift, Associate Judge Fischbach. Safe travels!”

“Farewell.” Everyone murmured their goodbyes, and with that, Tom left the police station.

Eventually, Bob, too, had to excuse himself, saying he had places to be and people to see, and Patrck and Marie shortly followed suit.

“You know, you really have come a long way since you first walked in here,” MatPat said quietly, and Gar turned from cleaning up stray pieces of confetti to study him.

“What do you mean? I’m still Gar.”

MatPat chuckled and joined him in his efforts. “Yes, and you always will be. But you’re more confident now. I haven’t even taught you that much.”

Gar raised his eyebrows. “You’re joking. I didn’t know the first thing about being a detective when you took me on. You taught me all that.”

MatPat shrugged slightly. “You already had most of the skills. You just didn’t know how to use them. I mean, you were the one to figure out the final bits of info we needed to bring down that last speakeasy.”

Gar shrugged. “You know, if we found out who was taking bribes, we’d be able to expose a lot more speakeasies.”

“True, but that’s not really all that challenging. Anyone could do it if they were interested.” MatPat shook his head. “But I was being serious, earlier. Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got a lot of potential, and I’m glad to be able to call you my partner.”

Gar grinned and ducked his head.

MatPat paused, then shook his head.

“Is everything alright?” Was MatPat maybe changing his mind about something?

“Everything’s fine.” MatPat paused again. “Gar?”

Gar looked up to see MatPat giving him a serious look. “Yeah?”

MatPat continued, hesitantly. “After you’re done with your rookie year, the chief’s not going to force you to remain as my partner. Do you want to work with someone else when that time comes?”

“I’d really rather continue working with you, if that’s alright.”

A grin split across MatPat’s face, and a rush of relief ran over Gar. “I’d very much like that.”

Gar beamed back.

MatPat looked at the remaining decorations and the last of the cake. “Let’s get this cleaned up, then,  _ partner _ , before someone comes in and steals the last of the cake.”

Gar laughed softly, and returned to cleaning up. This time, MatPat worked at his side, and it was just so comfortable that it almost felt like home.


	30. Boston Boxer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It should be updated with every new chapters we post!
> 
> Today's tunes:  
> Gloomy Sunday- Branford Marsalis Quartet

It was fitting to have rain pattering off the windowpanes—at least for PJ. The chill of the outside air seemed to permeate even the warmest rooms of the house.

Maybe it was just PJ feeling empty and dead inside.

PJ pulled a blanket more firmly over Luna and began his pacing again. Originally, he’d started it as a way to get her to fall asleep while Amanda got Matthias comfortable in one of the spare rooms, but he’d found himself continuing it long after she’d fallen still.

Everything was wrong. Sure, Matthias had been released from the hospital, but the whole reason he and Amanda and Luna had moved to the headquarters was because the  _ capo _ had lost his leg and was going to need quite a bit of help until he fully adjusted to it.

And that was PJ’s fault. If he’d never given the order to kill Wade and Molly, Matthias never would have been so badly hurt.

And Sophie never would have broken up with him.

PJ’s breath hitched, and he walked over to Luna’s cradle before setting her down and sinking into the chair next to it. No. He wouldn’t start crying again. Not when he was supposed to be watching Luna.

The door opened quietly, and PJ looked up to see Amanda slip in.

Amanda walked over to Luna and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead, but then turned to PJ.

Not that he saw it. He'd closed his eyes and was sitting leaning his forehead into the palm of his hand, fingers tangled in his hair.

This was all his fault.

“You know,” Amanda said slowly, quietly, “it's not your fault. They knew the risks of a hit. It didn't turn out how anyone expected, but it's not your fault.”

PJ opened his eyes but didn't bother looking at her. How could he tell her he wasn't crying over the lost men, over Matthias, that he'd done his crying about that already? She hadn't known about Sophie, he couldn't tell her that's what hurt so much.

“Nobody blames you for what happened.” Amanda sighed. “None of us could have known there would be a sniper. You made the best decision at the time, like any good leader would.” She gave him an encouraging smile.

It was an awful lot like the ones Sophie used to give him.

PJ groaned and closed his eyes again, trying to keep the threatening tears from falling.

Amanda put her hand on his shoulder, briefly tearing him from his thoughts.

“Go to bed, PJ. You've done so much already, and I can tell the weight of this is exhausting you. It'll all look brighter in the morning.”

PJ stifled a sob and slid to his feet, pulling his hand from his head in the process. Sleep. What a lovely idea.

If only memories of Sophie didn't haunt all his dreams. And all of his waking moments.

He hadn't been able to go back to Freddy's since it happened. They'd met there, they'd talked and laughed there, and it hurt so very much to even think about it.

The godfather had noticed, of course, and had asked how courting this mysterious Italian girl had gone.

He'd not asked anything about it since PJ started crying on the spot.

Why did it hurt so much?

“PJ.” Amanda said just as he reached the door. “Thank you for watching Luna.”

PJ dipped his head and left the room to drag himself up the stairs and drop onto his bed.

He wasn't sure how long he laid there, listening to the rain fall against the brick, against the windows, against the nearby trees and branches and leaves, listening to the thunder rumble and roll and watch flashes of light slip through the curtains.

The door creaked open, then someone slipped inside the room.

Well, if it was an assassin, at least he'd stop hurting so much inside.

“I know you're not asleep.” Jordan's voice said softly.

PJ ignored him, not even sparing the energy to look over at him.

“Peej.” A weight settled on PJ's bed. “The door is closed. Everyone else is trying to sleep. But you're not.”

“What are you doing here?” PJ finally asked, but he didn't take his gaze off the ceiling.

“Eh, the godfather wanted me to stay with you and make sure you didn't try to kill yourself in a fit of heartbroken idiocy.” Jordan shrugged.

“People depend on me.” PJ flicked his gaze to Jordan.

“You're a mess.” Jordan sighed. “A complete mess.”

“Thanks.” PJ said dryly.

“You really do love her. I didn't think that was possible after that short of time, but I guess it is.” Jordan scratched the back of his head. “I mean, at least you're eating. Could be worse.”

PJ snorted. “Not by much it can't.”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “Get up.”

PJ looked at Jordan, allowing his confusion to show. “Why?”

“Get up. You're going to Freddy's.”

PJ frowned. “I knew telling you about that was a bad idea.”

“Look, Peej, you need to go. I'm driving you. Get drunk if you need to, I don't care. I'll even drop you off a bit away so nobody sees me and figures it out. But you're going, even if I have to literally haul your sorry self there and buy you a drink.”

PJ blinked, but there was no mistaking the look on Jordan's face.

\-----

The car was downright chilly, and PJ just sat there, watching rain stream down the windows.

“This is deep Irish territory,” Jordan sounded like he was remembering something. “I'm not really comfortable with what you want me to do.”

“I'm not telling you where it is.” PJ said softly. “The godfather might be unwilling to kill me if he finds out about this, but he'd have no problems ordering me to kill you. This is as much risk as I'm willing to let you take.”

Jordan let out a long breath. “How long are you going to be gone?”

“No more than an hour, probably. It's getting close to closing time and I can't imagine the staff will want to stay late just for me.”

“I thought you were one of the staff.”

“I don't usually stay this late. I have to get back before people notice I'm gone.”

Jordan leaned back in his seat and burrowed himself deeper into his coat. “Alright. One hour. Then I'm coming to find you. No forgiveness on this one.” He closed his eyes. “Unless you decided to drink yourself into unconsciousness, which is bad for you, but would at least give me an excuse for something when I get you back.”

“One hour.” PJ opened the door and exited into the rain. He could feel Jordan's gaze on him as he walked down the street, but the man made no efforts to follow, so that was alright.

Despite wearing a coat and only having to walk a five minute walk, PJ was absolutely soaked by the time he got to the back door of the Tiny Box. The cold seemed to be sapping what little energy he had left after not sleeping for 22 or so hours, but he still managed to get a decent knock out on the door.

Almost instantly, he was being pulled in, Arin stripping him of his coat and shouting for Mark. Instantly, hurried footsteps came, and Mark and Amy appeared with concern (and a fair amount of exhaustion) on their faces.

“PJ!” Mark hurried forward and gripped his left upper arm, sending pain up and down said arm. “You're freezing. Amy,” he turned to her.

“Already on it.” Amy turned and darted up the stairs to the second floor.

“Those wet clothes are just going to get you sick.” Mark shook his head and started pulling off PJ's shirt.

“Mark.” Why did he keep ending up with people pulling his clothes off him in concern?

“You're literally shaking.” Mark shook his head, even as a towel was pressed into PJ’s arms and a blanket draped over his shoulders. “We'll dry your clothes as fast as we can but I refuse to let the cold kill you.” He pushed PJ into one of the staff restrooms. “Hurry up or I'll finish the job.”

PJ complied, pulling the blanket as tightly around himself as possible so as not to expose much. Unsurprisingly, he was far too tall for the blanket, so he still felt indecently exposed with that much of his legs showing.

Amy and Kathryn, however, were nowhere to be seen as Mark ushered him into the main floor and pushed him into a pile of blankets and allowed him to fully cover up with said blankets.

A soft curse sounded, and PJ looked over to see Jack staring at him in obvious concern.

“You look awful.” Jack finally said.

PJ just bundled deeper into the blankets.

Fortunately for him, Ethan came out with a streaming mug. “You gotta drink this, Kathryn's orders.”

PJ took it, and while it certainly sent warmth through his body and stopped his shivering, it didn't dispel the still-constant ache of the breakup.

Jack came over and sat next to him, his concern clear on his face.

PJ didn't really have the energy to lift his head and look his friend in the eye.

“Have you been getting proper sleep?” Jack asked quietly.

Was it that obvious? First Amanda had called him out on it, then Jordan, and now Jack.

Jack cursed softly, as if speaking too loudly might break PJ somehow.

PJ couldn't say it wouldn't.

“I don't know what's been going on, but you shouldn’t be going out in the cold and wet when you're so tired. You're just asking to get sick.”

PJ just watched the lights dance across the surface of his drink. He should be holding the blankets with his left hand and the cup with his right, but that- just took too much effort.

Jack's hands went around PJ's left, and the drink stopped quivering quite so much. “You're shaking, even warmed up.” Jack sounded like he was frowning. “What happened to cause all this? Is it your family emergency? Did someone die?”

PJ slowly shook his head, trying to disengage his hand and cup from Jack's without moving too much. It wasn't working very well.

“That's good to know.” Jack paused. “Don't worry about hurrying back, you know. You're loved, but we'd rather see you rested and talkative than like this.”

PJ set his cup on the table and just continued staring at it. That was easy. He didn't have to move and see what everyone else was thinking of him right now.

“Place is empty.” Jack supplied. “Temps had to go early so most everyone followed suit. I was about to go myself, get Chica to a proper bed and not the corner under Mark's chair, but she can wait. She's asleep, anyway.”

Lucky dog.

Jack sighed. “What's eating you up like this? What's eaten all your joy and energy?”

He sounded so sad about it that PJ managed to glance at him, only to see an expression of pure concern.

“Family emergency's over, just about.”

Jack shot up in his seat at PJ’s words.

“Sophie dumped me.” PJ finished, taking another sip of the drink. It was almost gone, he realized. How long had he been sitting there?

“Oh, Peej.” Jack sounded helpless.

Oh well. Jack couldn't have done anything anyway.

“Your clothes are dry and warm.” Mark said. “They're waiting in the back if you want to change back now.”

PJ wordlessly slid to his feet and moved to the back, holding the blankets to himself tightly.

“He's still dealing with his family mess,” Jack shook his head, “and Sophie dumped him.”

Mark frowned. “I’ll need to talk with him for a bit.”

“Good luck.” Jack made a face. “It took me a good ten minutes to get that out of him.”

Mark tapped his fingers on the table, then nodded and moved over to the bar.

“What’re you doing?” Jack asked.

Mark didn’t look up as he reached for a very specific set of bottles. “You remember that drink I gave you a while ago?”

Jack nodded.

“Well, you’re one of a few people who’s had it. You, Amy, Tyler, Kathryn, Ethan, and Felix.” Mark shrugged. He wasn’t sure what it tasted like, seeing as he couldn’t actually drink it, but everyone so far had commented that it tasted like him.

“Ethan?” Jack blinked.

“I give it to those closest to me.” Mark set a glass on the bar and glanced over at Jack. “I’m thinking it’s time for someone else to get it.”

“He’s pretty out of it, Mark.” Jack sighed. “I don’t know if he’ll even notice.”

Mark chuckled. “Oh, everyone’s noticed so far. I doubt he’ll be any different.” Maybe not. Nobody had been this broken when Mark had given them his drink. Felix had been upset, yes, but he’d just spilled his secret involvement with the molasses flood, so that was unsurprising.

But even Felix hadn’t been so emotionally dead as to sit in silence for ten minutes while Jack tried to talk to him.

Mark frowned, then glanced up to see PJ returning to the room, once again in his proper clothes.

It was immediately obvious what Jack had meant. Not only did PJ look completely exhausted, which was something Mark had noted earlier when PJ had first come in, but he wasn’t even looking around, and there was a dull weight of some kind keeping him from his normal bouncy steps.

“PJ.” Mark said simply. “Over here.”

PJ glanced up from his apparent examination of the floor and complied.

“Sit. And have a drink.” Mark slid the now-complete drink over to the other side of the bar, then began cleaning up. They were almost officially closed for the night, since it was half to 5 in the morning, so he might as well get ahead on the cleanup.

PJ barely reacted until he got a mouthful of the drink. Then he slowly sat up straight, and then he blinked, and then he just looked between Mark and the drink for a minute.

Mark walked around the side of the bar to sit next to him.

“How are you feeling?”

PJ could only wordlessly stare at Mark while he met PJ with calm and gentle eyes. After a minute of silence, he spoke slowly, a hint of awe and confusion struggling with the monotone tone.

“W… what was in that drink?”

Mark only merely waved off PJ’s inquiries. “Nothing you haven’t had before.” Sitting up straight, he continued maintaining eye contact with PJ, cocoa brown eyes never leaving sea-green. He continued gently. “I hear that you’ve been going through tough times.”

PJ did not respond right away. It was a few seconds after Mark spoke that he finally lowered his eyes towards the strange drink. There was another delay before he nodded and took another mouthful, but once again, there was that strange combination of flavour to the drink that made him peer over at Mark. The smoky yet underlying sweetness to the drink gave PJ the impression that he was ingesting the speakeasy owner’s essence. Mark was speaking now, and for the first time since That Night, he could focus when someone was speaking to him.

“You know, I once struggled with family and personal love before, but I wouldn’t dare say that it’s anything comparable to what you went through.”

“You mean you’ve had fights with Amy before?”

Despite his state, PJ couldn’t help but blurt out a response. If he didn’t feel empty inside, he surely would’ve felt a tinge of embarrassment at his sudden rudeness. Luckily, Mark took no notice (or maybe did, but he was sympathetic enough) of the infringement and merely responded.

“No- well, yes. We did have fights before, but that’s not what I meant.” Mark took a few seconds to ensure that PJ was listening before continuing. “Despite what it seems, I wasn’t blessed to start off with someone as wonderful as Amy.”

PJ said nothing, but his eyes told Mark enough to go on.

“I’ve been with another woman before. I won’t say her name, but I was with her before I met Amy. Like anyone else in a relationship at the time, I hoped that I would have a future with her, just like you did with Sophie, but alas, that didn’t seem to be the case. We broke off and-”

“Are you saying that I should forget about Sophie and move onto another woman?” PJ’s voice was quiet, but it held to it a degree of ferociousness and accusation that nobody would expect to slip out of a grieving man.

A voice in the back of his head pointed out it would be a better option overall for him to just move on from Sophie and find another woman, preferably an Italian  _ signorina _ _.  _ However, when he faced the prospect of forgetting about Sophie, he immediately cut off that line of thinking. It hurted too much to bear the fact that he would have to abandon Sophie, and he didn’t need anymore pain tonight.

Mark flinched slightly from PJ’s tone, but he shook his head to recover and looked PJ straight into the eyes.

“No, I’m not saying that you should forget about her and look for another woman. I’m saying that you need to move on from the past and stand here with us in the present.” Mark took PJ’s hands, forcing him to keep looking into his eyes.  “PJ, you have a whole life ahead of you. You can’t afford to be bogged down by an unexpected turn of events. As bad as the breakup may seem, you can’t allow it to dictate your whole life.”

PJ uttered not a word, so Mark squeezed his hands.

“We all care very much about you and your wellbeing. After Couple’s Night, Molly and Wade returned to Freddy’s, and for this past week, we’ve been concerned over where you’ve been. They, Felix, Ethan, Tyler, Amy, Kathryn, Jack and I–all of us, but especially Jack–were worried sick when you didn’t return. You were missing before that too; I knew from talking to Jordan that you weren’t injured or anything, but you were gone for so long that we couldn't help but be concerned.”

Sophie’s words surfaced in PJ’s mind and tears started to prickle at his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out of it. He couldn't say anything; he felt emotions starting to rise inside of him, but the words meant to express them were trapped in his throat.

Mark continued to speak, but now in a softer tone.

“PJ, we consider you family; your health is just as important as ours. We love you immensely, so please, let us help you.”

And just like that, with those exact words, the dam broke.

Startled, Mark leaned forward to catch PJ as he crashed onto him, sobbing uncontrollably. He held PJ on his shoulders, not caring that his jacket was dampening from tears. Mark could only offer soft soothing words while he rubbed and patted PJ’s back.

The two stayed like that for an undefined amount of time, with Mark continuing to support PJ while he let go of some of his emotions. Truthfully, to Mark, it felt right to see PJ exude a staggering amount of emotions at once than to see him devoid of any. Mark understood the detached feeling that accompanied a person during their time of grief, as well as the onslaught of emotions stimulated after. It was best to let it all out, which is what Mark let PJ do.

Finally, PJ managed to speak through gasping breaths.

“W-w-why are y-you all s-s-s-so kind to me? I d-don’t understand what I did to d-deserve such generous treatment from everyone.”

“Oh PJ.” PJ could hear Mark’s smile. “Did I not say it before? You’re family to us, PJ, and family means that we take care of each other.”

At that, PJ, unable to speak properly, could only hiccup in response.

“I’m so sorry that you had to go through this, PJ. I know how much she means to you.”

Mark’s words held to them such a level of understanding. No questioning what had happened to cause the breakup in the first place. Just love.

For the first time in weeks, the barest hint of a smile crossed PJ’s face. It wasn’t very strong, and could really be just in a range of natural resting expressions, but Mark liked to think it was a smile.

“Thank you.” PJ murmured.

Mark grinned. “Thank me by finishing that drink I made you. Otherwise Jack’s going to steal it.”

Jack snorted. “Says who.”

PJ pulled back and gave Mark one more grateful look, and Jack smiled. PJ obviously wasn’t over what had happened, and no words from Mark would change that so quickly, but some burden had eased on PJ’s shoulders.

Mark flashed Jack a weary smile and began the cleanup process.

Jack leaned over to PJ. “Glad to have you back.”

PJ finished his sip of the drink and nodded, sort of glancing in Jack’s direction as he did so. “Good to be back.”

Jack glanced to where Chica was sleeping curled up under a chair, then shook his head. He had to get her home soon so she could get proper rest.

Then a thought occurred to him, and he turned to look back at PJ. “Peej.”

PJ glanced over at him again, but didn’t say anything. That was alright, he didn’t have to spend the energy on it just yet.

“You and I missed a lot of time playing while you were gone. What do you say we make it up? As friends? Heard there’s a really good comedy at the movie theatre.”

PJ blinked, then glanced at the now almost empty drink, then looked up. To Jack’s surprise, tears were welling up again.

Jack stepped forward and pulled him close, letting him sob some more. Was this good crying or bad crying? Had the suggestion of a movie been too much? Had it reminded PJ of Sophie? Hopefully not.

“A-are you sure?” PJ’s voice came from Jack’s shoulder.

Jack grinned. “‘Course I’m sure. We’re friends. Friends spend time together.”

“B-but we’re so d-different.”

Jack patted PJ’s shoulder. “Well, we’d better thank Mark for opening this speakeasy, then. Otherwise I’d never have gotten to call you one of my best friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that we have a blog on Tumblr just for this series! It's [Here!](https://royalflushstories.tumblr.com/)


	31. Movie Mischief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It should be updated with every new chapters we post!
> 
> Today's tune:  
> Ain’t That a Grand and Glorious Feeling- Nat Shrilkret, The Victor Orchestra

Jordan clasped his hands behind his back and gave the godfather a bit of a bow. It never hurt to stay on his good side, especially since Jordan was the only non-Italian  _ capo _ . Staying on the godfather’s good side was a survival strategy at this point.

_ “You asked to see me?” _ Italian still felt a bit odd in Jordan’s mouth, but PJ no longer drilled him on pronunciation. It was probably at least acceptable.

_ “You carried a sleeping PJ into the house this morning, according to Yami. Why? And why at nearly 5:30 in the morning?” _ The godfather didn’t sound angry, at least, but there was just enough of an edge to his voice to make Jordan uneasy.

_ “He couldn’t fall asleep, so I took him on a drive and we talked. He fell asleep on the way back and I didn’t want to risk waking him.” _ That was, at least, true. Not the whole truth, but Jordan had no intentions of being the reason the godfather found out about PJ visiting Freddy’s.

The godfather hummed thoughtfully, and Jordan forced himself to stand still under the old man’s intense gaze.

_ “What did you talk about? His  _ signorina _ ’s temporary oversight?” _

Jordan dipped his head.  _ “Among other things. Why do you say it’s a temporary oversight?” _ This was the first time he’d heard anyone refer to the breakup as such.

The godfather chuckled softly.  _ “She will realize her mistake soon enough, and then she will return to him. If he were braver in matters of the heart, he already would have regained her, but it will happen.” _

Jordan squashed the urge to laugh nervously.  _ “We’ll see, then.” _

The godfather nodded.  _ “When he spoke with you, did he seem more like himself, or is he still possessed by that emptiness?” _

_ “He hasn’t cheered up, no.” _ Jordan paused.

_ “Is there something else?” _

_ “While we were driving, we ran into one of his friends—we didn’t actually run into him, just saw him on his way to an early morning work shift—and the friend suggested going to the movies. It was the first time I’ve seen PJ excited about something for weeks.” _ This, of course, was almost a complete lie, but it wasn’t that bad.

The godfather seemed to think about that for a minute, then he nodded.  _ “Follow him. After what happened with Matthias and his men, he needs a bodyguard.” _ The godfather sighed.  _ “Stay near him as much as you can, or have one of your men do it. With him in his current state, I don’t want to risk him doing something to himself while he’s alone.” _

Jordan grimaced.  _ “He’s not going to like that.” _

_ “I’m more concerned with keeping him alive than with what he’ll enjoy.” _ The godfather said simply.

Jordan dipped his head.  _ “Very well. I’ll arrange that.” _

_ “Let me know if he starts to improve.” _

_ “Of course.” _

A knock sounded on the door, then it opened to reveal one of the Family’s doctors. 

Ah. Time for Jordan to leave, then, unless he wanted to watch the godfather get his next dose.

No thanks.

Jordan stepped aside and gave the godfather one more respectful bow, then excused himself.

Oh, PJ was going to hate Jordan following him to all his secret things.

\-----

When the door to his room opened and someone walked in—without even knocking, how rude—PJ didn’t even glance over.

“Ceiling’s that interesting?” Jordan asked casually, and the door clicked closed.

“What is it this time?” PJ’s voice was as monotone as it had been the day before.

Silence for a minute, then Jordan sighed. “The godfather wants you to have a bodyguard.”

PJ frowned. “Oh, lovely. Why?”

“Oh, you know. We lost three of our men and Matthias lost his leg to an unknown sniper. Also you’ve got us worried that you’ll change your mind about doing something to yourself.”

PJ sighed. “I won’t.” He had too many people counting on him to do that.

“His orders trump yours.”

PJ made some vague sound of some unidentifiable emotion. Even he himself didn’t know what it was supposed to be.

“Peej,” Jordan said softly, “you realize this means I’ll be following you every night.”

PJ blinked, then slowly pushed himself onto an elbow and just looked at Jordan. “What?”

“You’re going back to Freddy’s, aren’t you?”

PJ frowned and flopped back on his bed, letting the air woosh out of him. “Well, yes.” It was the only place he’d felt anything good in the past weeks. Besides, there were people counting on him there, too.

“Then I’ll be following you every night. The godfather’ll have my head if I let you go anywhere unattended, and I don’t want to risk anyone else slipping up about the place.”

PJ groaned and shoved his hand into his hair. “I’ve never  _ had _ a bodyguard before, Jordan.” How was he supposed to explain this to Mark, to Jack? Oh, Jack was going to be making all sorts of comments as soon as he found out.

“I’m following you to the movies today,” Jordan continued, “so we’ll have a chance to figure out the logistics of it all before your big night.”

Excellent. Jack was sure to have extra comments about it for Freddy’s anyway.

Wait.

PJ sat up again and just looked at Jordan for a minute.

Jordan used to be part of the McLaughlin Boys, PJ knew that. But Freddy’s was deep in Irish territory, and PJ had seen definite mob members there before.

“Someone could recognize you. At Freddy’s, I mean.”

Jordan frowned. “We’ll figure something out.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “On that note, we should probably get going if we want to meet your friend on time.”

\-----

“We’re too short on men,” Link said apologetically, “we just can’t risk something that bold. Trust me, I’d be glad to find the noodles’ base of operations and sauce the lot of them, but we can’t.”

“We’re going to lose men every time we scuffle with them,” Jack growled softly, “and we’re just going to have to hope it’s not as bad as 1919.” He scowled. Much better to find them and kill them all in one go. “What do you mean we don’t have the manpower for that? It would only take half a dozen people searching until we found their trail.”

“Everyone’s occupied with their standard jobs.” Link shook his head.

“Reassign some of the spuds that got put on lookout duty.” Jack shrugged and turned to go back to getting ready to leave for the movies. “They know the city better anyway.”

Link’s lack of response, however, made Jack turn back. 

Link rubbed the back of his neck.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s Rhett?”

Link gestured deeper into the warehouse. “Talking with some of the men. Some of them have been near the territory border a lot and are starting to complain.”

“I see.” 

Link went a little pale at how cold Jack’s voice had become.

So Rhett was dealing with insubordination.  _ How ironic. _ Jack scowled and stormed in the direction Link had gestured. How ironic that Rhett, the man who had avoided following Jack’s orders on training spuds for  _ three weeks _ , was dealing with men who didn’t want to follow orders.

Jack was so busy scanning the men in the warehouse for Rhett (this would be a lot easier if he could see over people’s heads) that he barely noticed how quickly people got out of his way. He definitely didn’t notice the wide-eyed looks his men gave each other after he’d gone through, or the whispers trying to figure out what had happened to make Jack so angry.

There.

“RHETT.” Jack shouted, barely holding back the fury in his voice.

Rhett turned around so quickly he hadn’t managed to compose his expression, and the raw  _ fear _ on his face made something deep inside Jack smile. 

“What can I do for you?” Rhett managed, his voice only shaking slightly.

_ “Why haven’t you trained the spuds.” _

Rhett’s eyes narrowed as he looked down on Jack (he had no choice, Jack had gotten in too close for any alternatives). “Because they’re kids. It’s not their job to get involved in this.”

“It was your job to  _ get _ them involved in it.” Jack balled his hands into fists. “If we don’t have the manpower the oldest ones provide, we’re going to lose territory. And losing territory means fights, and men dying. I thought you knew that.”

“I’m very aware of that fact.” Rhett scowled. “That’s why I don’t want the spuds out in it.”

Jack let out a snort. “They’re not supposed to be watching the borders, bollix. They’re supposed to be watching for threats around the city, which will free up the adults for the jobs that require fighting. So don’t you give me that nonsense.” 

Rhett growled softly. “You know as well as I do one of them is bound to get hurt.”

Jack cursed. “They’re going to get hurt worse when they’re done growing up and we just throw them out there. They’re going to end up dead, Rhett, unless you  _ do what you were told and train them. _ ”

Rhett pulled himself to his full height, and Jack set his jaw. “They’re  _ kids _ .”

“I was in a _ war  _ when I was a kid,” Jack growled. “I was 17 when I first sent a bullet into someone’s eye.”

Rhett seemed to waver at that.

“If you believe, even for an instant, that I want those kids anywhere  _ near _ fighting, you need to reevaluate. I want to keep them from having to deal with what I’ve dealt with.” 

Rhett gave a small nod.

Jack stepped back. “When I get back you’d better have a list of the spuds getting training.”

“Yes, Seán,” Rhett said quietly.

Jack nodded, and then he turned and walked off. He needed to compose himself on his way to the movie theatre. It wouldn’t do for PJ to see him this upset.

\-----

It was rather easy to find PJ at the theatre, seeing as he was the tallest and gloomiest person there.

“Oh, why the long face here?” Jack greeted cheerfully.

PJ jumped slightly, then smiled at Jack. “Just thinking.”

Jack shook his head. “You think too much sometimes.” He glanced around. “I’d say let’s get to the movie, but I honestly have no idea what I’m doing here.”

PJ chuckled softly.

“Seriously, what are we doing.”

“I, uh, took the liberty of choosing a film already.” PJ rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s one I’ve seen before, back when it first came out, and it’s good. I figured since you probably hadn’t seen much in the way of films before it’d be a good introduction.”

Jack shrugged. “Sounds good to me. What is it?”   


“It’s called ‘The Kid,’ and it’s definitely a more... lighthearted story.”

Jack grinned, and PJ couldn’t help but smile back. “Sounds great, actually.”

As PJ led Jack to the theatre room itself, Jack kept glancing around and muttering things about “frivolity” and “waste of resources” and “what do you need that for” and “stop trying to abandon your kids”. 

Well, so far he hadn’t noticed Jordan trailing them some fifteen feet away.

PJ had to admit, Jordan did seem to know what he was doing.

The crowd got thicker as they passed one of the rooms. PJ wasn’t quite sure what film had been playing there, but he’d overheard some others talking about a romance of some kind as he’d passed by earlier.

PJ glanced at Jack to make sure he was still following (he was) and bumped shoulders with someone just as tall as he was. Two murmured apologies, British accents standing out, and they were gone before PJ had the chance to look to see who it was.

“PJ,” Jack said as they emerged from the dense crowd, “we’re being followed.”

Huh, so he had noticed. “Yes, we are.” PJ glanced over his shoulder to see Jack frown at him. “Well, I am.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem terribly concerned about that.”

“I’m not.”

Jack made a face. “Since when have you had a bodyguard?”

“Earlier today.” PJ let out a sigh. “My uncle decided I wander around town too much for my own safety and dumped him on me.”

“Do you know him well?” Jack glanced over his shoulder, once again catching a glimpse of an all-too-familiar face. Maron, the deserter. 

“We’ve spoken, but he didn’t offer a lot of information on his past.” One of these days, PJ was going to have to ask why Jordan left the McLaughlin Boys.

Jack made a face. It stood to reason that Maron had had to find a job after leaving the mob, and being a bodyguard was right around his capabilities. 

Hopefully Maron wouldn’t recognize him, though. It wasn’t like they’d actually spoken before—Jack had still been a card dealer for one of the mob’s gambling centers when Maron had left. Although, they had been around each other a few times before Maron left, so there was a distinct possibility Maron would recognize Jack.

Jack silently cursed. Hopefully Maron hadn’t paid attention to the card dealers, otherwise he could tell PJ, and PJ might decide he didn’t want to be friends with another mobster. 

Maron didn’t approach them at all during the film, though. Nobody else was close to them, either, so Jack and PJ started making up voices for the various characters. More than once, Jack did some ridiculous voice that sent PJ into hardly-contained gales of laughter.

“You’re quite good at this,” PJ managed through gasps of breaths, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Thanks, man!” Jack shot him a grateful smile before he gave PJ some friendly pats on the arm.

PJ returned the smile with his own before glancing at Jack. “I have to ask though, how are you so good at imitating voices? I’ve never heard such an accurate imitation of Felix’ voice, let alone a perfect replica of anyone’s!”

Jack shrugged. “When I was little, I used to do it for my siblings back in Ireland. Sometimes, we played tricks on the family by having me pose as one of my siblings. They would all be laughing on the floor whenever they weren’t the ones being made fun of. It was great.” 

Jack smiled fondly at the memory, but there was a hint of sadness that PJ could just barely make out. He was about to reach over and give sympathetic pats of his own, but Jack had already regained his bright grin.

“Anyways, that’s my story. Yer not bad yourself either, Peej. You should’ve heard yourself a while back! That’s what I call gold acting.”

PJ chuckled in response. “It’s somewhat of a hobby of mine, to amuse myself and pass the time. I haven’t done it in a while, though.” He gave Jack a side glance. “At least now I get to share it with somebody who won’t give me a look like I grew an extra head.”

“It’s a blessing, if anything!” Jack laughed, clapping a hand to PJ’s back.

An usher gave them a stern glare. Jack and PJ exchanged knowing looks while they waited for the usher to leave—then began to talk again, albeit in a much more quiet volume. After a moment, another character appeared on the screen, and Jack glanced at PJ from the corner of his eyes.

“Hey Peej, you think that bloke would sound like Wade?”

PJ smirked.

\-----

“Glad to hear you laughing again.” Jack beamed at PJ as they left the theatre, and PJ grinned back.

“Thank you for suggesting this.” 

Jack chuckled. “Don’t worry about it.” He paused, then glanced at Maron still trailing them. “You coming tonight?”

PJ shook his head. “I doubt I’m going to be able to stay awake that long.” He gave a bit of a sad grin.

“Of course.” Jack shook his head. “Get some rest. I’ll let Mark know.”

PJ nodded. 

Behind Jack, Jordan crossed his arms.

“Unfortunately, I’ve got to go. Otherwise I’d love to keep talking.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it.” Jack stepped back, as if headed to cross the street. “Take care!”

PJ lifted his hand in a farewell, smiling despite himself.

“Well,” Jordan said as the two of them walked to where PJ’s automobile was parked, “I’m glad you had fun.” 

PJ’s smile faded at Jordan’s tone. “What’s going on?”

“He and I, we’ve met before.” Jordan glanced the way Jack had gone. “We met in the mob. It’s not really safe for you to be around him.”

Jordan took a deep breath as he took his seat. “Jack’s not a member of the McLaughlin Boys.” He’d wondered that once, back when the two of them had first met, but there was just no way. “He’s just a friend who just happens to be Irish.”

Jordan  _ hmm- _ ed. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well,” Jordan said as he started the car, “I won’t tell the godfather about him, but if your friend ends up being more than just Irish, then we might end up having to take steps.”

PJ sighed, letting his head drop against the back of the seat. “You’re not killing him. He’s not going to hurt me.”

“We’ll see.” Jordan shook his head. “We will see.”


	32. Injuries and Inquiries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It should be updated with every new chapter we post!
> 
> Today's tune:  
> Mrs. McGrath- Bruce Springsteen

"How do you stand him, Will?"

Jack had inconspicuously left the warehouse some time ago, yet it was only now Rhett had finally worked up the nerve to act on his word. He knew Jack had been dead serious about that list of spuds before he left. He wasn’t tempted to see just how much farther he could push Jack’s patience. Still, the words which had been resting more bitter than acid on his tongue spat out the moment he had someone to expend them on.

That someone unfortunately happened to be one William MacDuff, more affectionately known as Old Willy by a majority of the gang’s longstanding members. The old man, now deep in his sixties, was a native of the homeland and had immigrated to Boston decades ago as a young man. He’d been with the McLaughlin boys since their conception and was regarded as some kind of elder or “wise man” of the group, though he’d always readily laugh in the face of anyone who openly called him such.

He’d been good friends with Rhett’s father; went together like bangers and mash, or so he always claimed. Nowadays he mostly spent his time in the warehouse with the resident spuds. He’d become their primary guardian of sorts, and god help anyone who decided to tempt his wrath by wronging them. He was a good man. Rhett had a hefty respect for him, but right then he was angry.

He was angry, practically nauseated with the task Jack had left for him, and those emotions radiated off of him like heat off a car left out in the blazing summer heat. It showed in how he carried himself, the set of his jaw, the slant of his eyebrows and even in his tone. Thankfully, the spuds were off playing nearby, so it was only Willy bearing the brunt of his fury—for the moment.   
  
The older man was fixing up a few of the spuds' toys from his seat on a large wooden crate. He had quite the hands for woodworking and could often be found carving out the  _ claddaghs  _ for their heists, but they all knew he preferred using his skills for the spuds benefit. Willy huffed at Rhett, turning to spit with precision accuracy into a nearby bucket. With his silvering ginger hair and matching scruff of a beard, he could have been their damn mascot. The man was practically an overgrown leprechaun. "What yeh mean, stand who? This abou’ ol' Jacky again?"   
  
"What's that supposed to mean-” Rhett huffed immediately, only to bite at his tongue and think better of it. “I mean, yes. It's Jack. But what's that supposed to mean?" Rhett snapped. Even with the passage of time, his latest argument with Jack felt fresh as ever within the confines of his buzzing mind.   
  
"I mean yeh never shuttup abou' the mahn. Just let it go already. 's always 'Jack this' an' 'Jack that', 'oh he’s still a wee babe', 'oh he ain't got tha experience o' more than a damn foal', ach. I'm sick o' yer moanin', Rhett." Willy examined the little toy pull-horse he'd been screwing the wheels back onto. Apparently satisfied, he set it aside in favor of a busted top.   
  
"I don't- well I mean- it's true though! Just look at the way he's running things. Going around, sniping whoever he feels the need to, hiding things from me and Link. He can't be trusted. He's too naive- too fucking young-"   
  
"Oi now, you were young once too, yeh welp. I been aroun’ since yer da carried yeh tru these halls on his shoulders an' I know, he wouldn't be ‘appy ‘bout ye tryin' ta stir up revolts an' tha like. Jus' 'cause ye got yer jimmies in a twist over'im pickin' another mahn-"   
  
"That's NOT what this is about!"   
  
"Admit it. Yer fackin' jealous."   
  
"That's not true. I'm just worried about the gang-"   
  
"The gang, er yer own stubborn pride?"   
  
Rhett was a bit red in the face by that point, as their conversation became more snappy and aggressive in tone. Willy was nonplussed, but he could see Rhett start posturing as if to throw his weight, so he stood and straightened his shoulders as well. He bit out, "Age ain't everythin', boyo. I'm a damn good example o' that."   
  
"Oh? It's not? Well all right then! If Jack, at twenty-something, can be the boss, then the spuds can surely be recruited at this point, yeah? Just throw them out there with a rifle of their own and let them shoot up the place!" Rhett was hardly enthusiastic about recruiting the older spuds, but he was frustrated and feeling threatened under Willy's wizened gaze. It reminded him too much of his father: disappointed, doubtful and stubborn. The last trait ran thick through all Irish blood—as did a nasty temper.   
  
Willy wasn't having it. He stepped forward to give Rhett a good prod to the chest, his wizened green eyes narrowed. "Watch yer step, Rhett. Them spuds be too young fer this kinda life-"   
  
"But Jack wasn't? When my father decided he should lead in his stead?"   
  
"Jack was well past bein' a man when yer da passed-"   
  
"They're gettin' younger by the day! Might as well start them fucking early! Heard that one with the bum eye's a decent shot, let's put a gun in his hands-"   
  
"Now yeh hold on righ’ there-"   
  
"Oi! It's Sam right? How would you like to-"   
  
Rhett's shouts to the group of spuds were halted when Willy gave him a rough shove, putting himself bodily into Rhett's line of sight. There was a new, but subtle, fury on his face. "You. Leave. Them. Outta this, Rhett James."   
  
"Make me." Rhett stared Willy down for several seconds, the tension thick. Neither man had noticed the spuds had stopped playing to watch the stand-off with confusion and baited breath. Rhett moved first, aiming to push past Willy.   
  
Willy, in response, gripped him hard at the shoulders and shoved him back. "I said NO, James."   
  
"So did I, but that never stopped a thing!" Rhett countered with a snarl, as both men's fury reached a peak. He tried to dislodge Willy's grip, and the pair wound up in a heated grapple for dominance. Willy was a bit bigger, with far more years under his belt, but Rhett was younger. He had stamina, and his bones and muscles had yet to deteriorate with age. After some struggling, he gained the upper hand and got Willy off of him, giving him a shove with considerably more force than he honestly intended. "All of you are on his fucking side!"   
  
There was a crash as Willy lost his footing and fell back against the pile of crates. A more rotted one smashed to pieces from the force, while the rest slid across the concrete. Toys, broken or not, clattered to the floor as counterpoint to Willy's wheezing groans. Some of the broken wood was tinged red.   
  
"WILLY!!!" There was a chorus of cries, as any spuds within eyeshot immediately ran over. Those within earshot soon followed, along with a few of the men who'd been in the vicinity. They crowded around the mess, and two of them attempted to help Willy back onto his feet, but a couple loud groans discouraged their efforts.   
  
"What the fook happened?"   
  
"Shit, he's bleeding-"   
  
"Do we need tha hospital? Can we even take'im ta a fookin' hospital?"   
  
"Rhett, what happened?"   
  
"Rhett-"   
  
"Rhett."   
  
That last voice was Jack's, echoing in Rhett's ears. He hadn't even realized he'd been lost in his own head until he heard it, too busy staring at the smears of blood and Willy's fallen body. At the horrified, accusatory expressions on the spuds' teary faces. He blinked, catching his breath, and turned to look at Jack. The other Irishman's expression was unreadable. "I..."   
  
"Rhett. What did ye do?"

“His head’s bleeding,” Sam whimpered, gaze fixed on the scene across the warehouse, at Willy struggling to move despite his inability to get up, at Jack kneeling next to Willy. “We need help.”

Billy nodded, glancing at where Rhett had been shoved to side with a scowl. “Someone nice.”

Betty nodded. “Someone who knows people who can help.”

All three spuds paused and looked at each other. 

“The nice sweets lady,” Sam said.

“At the Tiny Box?” Billy asked.

Betty nodded. “Yeah, she's nice. Think she can help?”

Sam nodded. “Isn't that where Freddy's is at night? Even if she won't help maybe someone else will.”

Billy made a face and glanced back at the adults. “We're going to get in trouble for leaving so close to dark.”

“We'll deal with it.” Betty shook her head. “Come on, let's go.”

\-----

“I promise, I'm fine.” Mark smiled reassuringly at Dee, then moved to drop off a set of orders for Amy. “They've been making sure of that.”

“What about your second job?” Dee asked. “Has it eased up on you?”

Mark thought to Freddy's and the sheer number of people who demanded he take breaks, including by forcing him into a seat and dropping Chica on his lap. “It has. Everyone is bound and determined to make sure I'm okay.”

“That's good.” Dee smiled, though she didn't seem entirely convinced.

Whatever else Dee was going to say was cut off by the sounds of the alley door opening and small bodies tumbling to the floor.

Mark instantly went to investigate, only to see three young kids scrambling to their feet.

“He looks like her!” The girl blinked up at Mark. 

“He looks like an old man,” the boy muttered.

“What's going on?” Mark asked.

“Old Willy-”

“-the crates-”

“He's hurt and nobody knows what to do,” burst out the smallest, “and we need help.”

Mark blinked. “Woah, calm down. Who's hurt?”

All three shook their heads. “There's no time, he's got to be dying with that much bleeding!” 

Mark frowned. “Alright. Give me just a minute.” He walked back to where Dee was waiting. 

“I heard.” Dee looked at the kids. “I'll get them to my car, and I have some emergency supplies there. You grab what you need and meet me there as soon as possible.”

Mark nodded, then headed to the main floor to find Ethan. If the tiny Irish accents were any indication, the kids probably knew about Mark from Jack.

“What's up?” Ethan asked.

“Something's come up. I have to go. Call my mom in. If I'm not back by closing,” Mark let the sentence hang.

“Will do.” Ethan nodded. 

Mark turned and walked out.

\-----

Mark looked dubiously at the warehouse in front of them. “This is it?”

The three kids nodded, already trying to get out of the car.

“Well,” Mark sighed, “then let's go.” He cranked it into park, and turned to Dee—but she was already bustling out of the automobile, medical bag clutched in her hands.

Mark nearly had the mind to sigh, but he could feel the urgency just as well. Pocketing the keys he caught up to the children and his stepmom, right before the tallest kid pulled open a door and led the way in.

They hurried past an office—through the clouded windows he could see a desk full of papers and a bunk bed, did people actually live here?—then they rounded a corner and stepped out into the main area of the warehouse.

The lighting was sparse and far from bright, but it wasn’t hard to miss the group of men (maybe a dozen or so; maybe more) standing around a scattered pile of crates, and what looked like a man lying amongst the splinters.

There was Jack, kneeling next to the fallen man, practically snarling at a taller man standing off to the side.

“Jack!” the smallest kid piped up, darting between the men. “We brought help, see?”

Mark and Dee stood frozen at the entrance as the sound of shifting material somehow filled the vast space—and the light sound of metal sliding against belts and heavy material as once-hidden guns were brought into view.

Jack stood to face them, one hand behind his back. He looked at Mark and Dee for a moment, shock briefly flashing across his face, then raised a hand.

“Put ‘em away, boys. I know them.” 

As much as Mark wanted to ask what was going on, why men had drawn guns on them and why they’d listened to Jack, he was more concerned about the fallen man.

Jack glanced at Dee, but before he could say anything the smallest kid had Dee by the hand and was pulling her towards Willy. Trying to ignore the dozen or so number of men staring at him, Mark followed suit.

Setting her medical bag on the floor, Dee kneeled down and examined the man on the floor. Blood was slowly oozing from a wound on his head. With pursed lips, she reached into her bag and pulled out a roll of bandages. She wrapped them around the old man’s bleeding head, ignoring the fact that the room had grown quiet with bated breaths from its occupants.

After securing the bandage, Dee lifted the man’s arms up to check for scratches and bruises. She did the same for the legs before she stopping in deep thought. She raised her head up to look at the several men around her, unflinching from their gazes.

“He fell onto the crates, is that right?”

All of their heads turned to face a tall man off to the sides, his face expressionless. It took a moment for him to realize that he was being addressed. He nodded, the look of shame dripping from his face.

Dee hmmed, but did not inquire about the implications behind his look. “Did you hear any bones crack?”

The man shook his head no, and Dee turned back to look at the fallen man.

“I see.” 

She stood up and once again searched the sea of faces until her gaze rested on Jack.

“I’m afraid that the best course of action here would be to get him to a hospital.”

As if on cue, low murmurs rose from the group of men around them. Despite the intimidating number of men around her, Dee remained calm and steadfast while she awaited Jack’s response. 

Mark had to admire his stepmother for maintaining composure during times like this.

Jack held up a hand to quiet his men. “Is there another option?”

Dee shook her head. “I’m afraid not. With the man being as old as he is, there’s no way other way to ensure that there’s no broken bones, or internal wounds. Besides, there could be some other complications.”

He bit his lips before his eyes casted downwards, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. After a moment, he spoke. “How would we get him there fast enough?”

Dee opened her mouth to speak, but Mark finally chose this moment to make his presence known by answering first. “We came here with an automobile.”

Jack thought for another moment before seemingly coming to a conclusion. “Alrigh’, but I’m going with him.”

At this, the crowd of men erupted into a roar of protest. It took a long time before everyone quieted down, even as Jack shouted over all of them to shut up. Jack locked eyes firmly with each of his men while he addressed them.

“Look, I needta make sure that ol’ Willy gets what he needs ta live. You lads stay here and hold the place down while I’m gone. Is that clear?”

“But sir! What about you? Let one of us come with-”

“Did ye hear me, Killian? I want ye to stay back and hold this place while I’m gone. An’ don’t worry about me; I know these guys.”

The group of men looked uncomfortably at each other before they nodded. Jack turned to direct his voice towards a pair of tall men.

“Link! Yer in charge while I’m gone.” Both jumped when Jack addressed him; Link nodded.

The short man walked over to Willy and kneeled down to get ready to lift him. Some of the surrounding men moved to help, but Mark was already there. 

Jack mouthed a thanks to Mark and he nodded. They both lifted Willy, being careful about his fragile state, and left the main area of the warehouse. Dee gathered her materials into her bag and followed right after them, sparing the several men watching them only a glance. 

\--------------

Mark fowned as he watched Jack fidget nervously. 

“Jack? Why did I see beds in that warehouse?”

Jack froze, then glanced away and to the room Willy was being examined. “I appreciate the help, Mark, but you never should have walked inside there.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “Do people live there?”

Jack sighed softly, his eyes closing for a moment. “A few.”

Mark blinked. “Do you live there? You and Wiishu?”

Jack didn't answer, fixing his gaze on the door. Mark could see the muscles of his jaw working.

Mark frowned deeper. “Jack- why didn't you tell me? You deserve better than that. Those kids who found me, do they live there too?”

Jack slowly nodded.

Mark scowled. “Alright, we'll find a place for you to live. Somewhere safe and warm during the winter.”

Jack shook his head and leaned against the wall. “Those kids are on the run from… from all sorts of horrible things, Mark, and I can't afford a house big enough to protect them all from that.”

“Let me help.” Mark gave him a pleading look. “I've got plenty of money to help with that.”

Jack shook his head again, more firmly this time. “They're safe there, alright?”

“Safe? It’s a warehouse, how is that safe?”

Jack glanced around the hall. “They’ve nowhere else to go, and I’m not letting them get taken by the orphan train.”

Mark let out a long breath. Ah. That did complicate things.

Then he paused. “How many of them are there?”

Jack clamped his mouth shut and crossed his arms.

Mark frowned. “There’s no way you can provide for that many.”

Jack stiffened.

“Look.” Mark held up a hand, then changed what he was going to say. “I don’t want them to get taken away, and I have no objections to them being with you, but I’m not letting you shoulder everything for them. I know how much I pay you.”

“I’m not letting you give me a pay raise.” Jack scowled at him.

“No, I’d imagine not.” Mark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll start finding ways to save unserved food at the end of the day. You can have it for them. Goodness knows growing kids need it.”

Jack blinked, then furrowed his brow in a thoughtful expression. Finally, he nodded. “I suppose that’ll work.”

Mark grinned. “Oh, by the way, don’t worry about the bill for this.”   


Jack shot up and gave Mark an incredulous look. “Mark! You didn’t even ask!”

“You would have said no.” Mark shook his head. “Again, I know how much you make. There’s no way you could have done it.”

Jack scowled at him.

“It’s already done, Jack.” Mark shrugged. “I’m not letting you see one penny of it.”   


Jack muttered something under his breath. Probably something uncomplimentary. 

Mark hesitated, then decided to go ahead with it. “Why did that Killian guy call you ‘sir’?”

Jack made a dismissive face. “We met during the war, and one of the men we both knew called me that as a joke. It stuck.”

While Jack clearly wasn’t bothered by bringing up his past, it made Mark pause. He’d known it was possible that Jack had fought in the war, seeing as he’d yet to immigrate to America, but he’d never had confirmation of it until now.

And now that he had confirmation of it, he had a sinking feeling Jack would have been involved in it younger than most.

“Is that why you’re armed?”

Jack rolled his head, temporarily casting the left side of his face in shadow. “Partly. Not a lot of people are terribly fond of me, either, and I like being able to defend myself.”

Mark frowned. “And the men there?”

Jack dropped his head. “What are you asking, Mark?”

Mark made a face, then decided not to ask why they’d been armed. “Why did all of them listen to you?”

“No idea. I didn’t choose to be in charge, so I guess someone decided that?” Jack shrugged. “Any other questions, or are you done?”

Mark took the not-so-subtle hint and dipped his head. “Don’t worry about coming in for a while; not until you’re comfortable leaving him. I’ll tell the others.”

Jack nodded. “Appreciate it.” Then he paused. “Oh, yeah, I was with PJ earlier.”   


“Right, the movie thing.”

Jack nodded. “He’s not coming in tonight, since he’s getting some rest, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s back before I am.”

Mark smiled. “I’ll tell the others that, too.” He clapped a hand to Jack’s shoulder. “Take what time you need. Your family here needs you more.”

Jack nodded, his gaze already turned back to Willy’s door.


	33. Grandiloquent Gala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It should be updated with every new chapter we post!
> 
> Today's tune:  
> One by One- Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers

“Good evening, Kjellberg.” A politician approached Felix with a grin as he looked around the ballroom, decidedly ignoring the number of other high-profile people in the room. “Ms. Bisognin.”

Next to Felix, Marzia dipped her head, though her fingers dug into Felix’s arms at the subtle insult. 

Just so long as nobody commented on how Felix hadn’t proposed yet.

The man continued to make some comment about decorations Felix had probably heard dozens of times already tonight (Felix didn’t know, he was never really listening), only continuing on to the main floor of the party when Felix excused himself to greet someone else.

“PJ.” Felix gave the same dazzling grin he’d been wearing all night, though he couldn’t help but notice just how weary PJ seemed. “Good to see you, my friend.”

PJ gave a flourish, his own public smile appearing on his face. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Then he gave a tiny bow to Marzia. “Marzia. Looking lovely, as always.”

“Thank you, PJ.” Marzia smiled brightly, playing her part perfectly. Of course she was playing her part perfectly, she always did. “And welcome; I do hope you enjoy the celebration.”

“Happy birthday to the both of you.” PJ glanced around the room, likely taking in the decorations and the waiters. “As usual, you’ve outdone yourselves.”

“You’re too kind.” Felix glanced behind PJ, noticing a new face. “I see you’ve moved up in the world.”

PJ glanced over his shoulder, a brief flash of annoyance crossing his face. If Felix hadn’t known PJ well, he might have missed it. “Yes, my dearest uncle decided I needed a bodyguard with all the wandering around I do.”

A bodyguard? Had PJ gotten a promotion in the mafia? What would that make him now, though? What had he been before?

Marzia laughed softly. “You should stay put more.”

“I spend too much time inside as it is.” PJ quirked an eyebrow.

Felix patted PJ on the shoulder, then smoothly led Marzia to the next set of guests to greet.

A rather familiar waiter slid past them, and had there been a few seconds more between Felix and the next guests, he would have told him to go sit in a trash can again. Sadly, there was never enough time for fun in these events.

As the last few guests were checked off the list, it didn’t take long for the sounds of laughter and conversation to completely fill the ballroom.

“Time to mingle,” Marzia said softly, letting go of Felix’s arm. “I’ll return soon.”

Felix nodded, even as Ken stepped forward to take his place as an obvious bodyguard and Mary walked up to Marzia to take her place as a subtle bodyguard.

“Cry’s enjoying himself,” Ken muttered as Felix picked a random direction and gracefully waded into the crowd. “He’s already dropped three platters on couples who made nasty comments about you and Marzia around him.”

“I suppose I should lecture him on his incompetence, then.”

“He’ll just drop something on you. Might even go out of his way to make it your favorite drink.”

“I’d have to fire him then.” Felix smiled.

“Yeah, because that worked well the last time you tried.”

Felix chuckled at the memory, then returned his focus to being the best host he could possibly be to his fellow elite.

Felix wasn’t quite sure just how many conversations he overheard as he wandered the floor, making small talk and watching everyone. Finally, though, his attention landed on two rather familiar people.

Carefully, casually, Felix made his way over to them and sort of lingered, pretending to raise a concern with Ken for a cover of some kind.

“Look at all these people,” Carpett muttered, “look at all this flaunted wealth. And what did Kjellberg do to earn it? Nothing.”

“To be fair,” Tom responded evenly, “he does work. He runs a business.”

“I suppose.” Carpett sounded unconvinced. “I doubt he puts much work into it.”

“I doubt either of us could do better.” Tom shrugged slightly as Cry slid past them, carrying a now-empty platter. Neither of them reacted. Granted, Cry looked like any other waiter without his mask.

“It would take a dedicated work ethic.” Carpett acknowledged. Then he glanced at Tom. “Your brother, for instance, would do the job excellently.”

Tom stiffened. “He doesn’t need any more work.”

“Come on now, you said he’s been doing fine recently. He’s a man who understands the value of hard work; surely he’d be able to handle a third job.”

“He's about to inherit ownership of the Tiny Box.” Tom shook his head. “He'll have plenty of hard work ahead of him after Christmas.”

Mark didn't even own the place he was running a speakeasy in? Did his mother know he was doing such illegal things?

“Ah, he must be so looking forward to that.”

“He doesn't know yet.”

“Good. It'll keep him honest.”

Tom stiffened slightly, and Felix decided it was time to interfere—before someone got punched.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Felix walked up to them. “Enjoying yourselves?”

“Of course,” Carpett replied, “you’ve done wonderfully as a host.” As light as the words were, Carpett’s eyes held a challenge, almost—as if daring Felix to comment on the conversation he’d interrupted.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Felix smiled. “I can’t imagine how dreadful it would be if any of my guests felt uncomfortable.”

Carpett raised an eyebrow. “That would be dreadful, wouldn’t it.”

“Absolutely horrible.” Felix quirked his own eyebrow slightly. “You haven’t overheard anyone doing that to someone else, have you?”

Tom casually took a drink from a passing waiter, and said nothing.

“Of course not. What kind of guest would do that?” Carpett feigned horror.

“Quite the rude one. I might even have to throw them out to keep from a ruined reputation.”

Carpett’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How vigilant of you.”

Felix lowered his eyebrow. “I try.”

Carpett glanced over Felix’s shoulders, obviously searching for a way out of the conversation. He probably didn’t like Felix subtly calling him out like that.

“I don’t recognize everyone here,” Carpett said, starting to move, “so I think I’ll go do some introductions, find out what people do for a living.” He gave a nod to Felix and Tom. “Gentlemen.”

Felix watched Carpett leave, then realized he was headed for PJ. 

He’d have to make it up to PJ later.

Felix turned to Tom. “You must thank your brother for me, Fischbach. He hosts an excellent dinner night at your family’s restaurant.”

Tom smiled faintly, though he still seemed uncomfortable. “Of course.”

Felix paused. “If I may, why was your brother the topic of conversation as I walked past?” Felix already knew the answer to that: Carpett was a man who liked his shining examples of his ideals, whether or not said example agreed with him.

Tom shrugged. “Work ethic, supposedly.”

Felix tilted his head slightly. He’d spoken to Mark just the night before when he’d stopped by Freddy’s, and he knew Mark was doing better, but Tom wouldn’t know that. Unless Mark told his pro-Prohibition brother about a speakeasy, which seemed doubtful. Thus, “How is he doing? He seemed alright at the couples’ night, but you know him better than I.”

Tom made a face. “He’s doing well enough.” There was something in Tom’s eyes that hinted he might not believe his own words, but Felix couldn’t afford to investigate that at the moment. He wasn’t Felix tonight, not to most; he was Kjellberg, and that made all the difference.

“Glad to hear that.” Felix went to move on—he couldn’t risk lingering too long without someone speculating favoritism, and he wanted to get back to Marzia anyway before his brain started dribbling out his ears or he made a mistake he couldn’t recover from—but Tom made a sound.

“Kjellberg,” Tom said hesitantly.

Felix turned back to him. “Yes?”

“May I ask some intrusive questions?”

“Depends what sort of intrusive they are.” Felix wanted to ask that softly, to let Tom know this was a dangerous game, but he couldn’t. Not without someone nearby noticing the change in tone and making some sort of comments on it.

“How do you manage such a large business so easily?”

Despite himself, Felix laughed. “There’s nothing easy about it.”

Something flashed across Tom’s face—something Felix couldn’t identify.

“So how do you do it?” 

In that moment, Felix had overwhelming pity for Tom. He knew where these questions were coming from—Tom was thinking of Mark—and he stopped walking despite himself.

Tom glanced up from swirling his drink, and Felix narrowed his eyes slightly.

“I have people who support me.” Felix spoke quietly. “I have people who make sure I get enough rest, who make sure no assassins kill me, who listen to me and my worries. Your brother is lucky, Fischbach. He has you. Don’t ever give that up.”

And then he turned and headed for Marzia before he said something supremely stupid.

Marzia’s hand softly squeezed Felix’s arm, and he casually put his hand on top of hers.

“So-” Felix glanced up as PJ approached them- “how was Carpett?”

PJ made a face. “He wouldn’t stop asking questions about the family business. Couldn’t seem to get it in his head that there are whole businesses dedicated to helping other businesses.”

Marzia’s slight pressure on his arm told Felix PJ didn’t mean “family business” but “Family business disguised as a family business.”

“Oh, lots.” Felix shook his head. “Accountants. Trade. Investors.” He shrugged, even as PJ nodded. “Who knows, the day may come when I might have to lean on you.”

“That would be something, wouldn’t it.” PJ raised an eyebrow slightly. 

Felix  _ hmm _ -ed. “Strange circumstances indeed.”

As if waiting for Felix to say something like that, a series of gasps and raised voices rang out from the floor, followed by a few screams.

Instantly, Felix was being pulled away from the main floor by Ken, Marzia’s hand sliding from his arm in the process.

Cry slipped up to them, completely ignoring Ken’s scowl. “There’s a body.” His voice was low, barely audible, probably to keep anyone from recognizing it. Not wearing his mask only offered so much protection.

Ken scowled more, then turned to Felix. “Time to cut the party short.” He put a hand on his shoulder and steered him towards the closest exit while Cry darted back into the crowd. 

Felix bit his lip, wishing Cry had given just a tad bit more information. Of course, Cry might not have had information.

“Where’s Marzia?”

“Mary has her.” Ken ushered Felix into the hall, then to a small room where he stood next to the door. “Let’s hope it’s not an assassin this time.” 

Felix scowled, though every moment he couldn’t see Marzia made him more and more worried. They’d had attempts made on them before. That was the whole reason behind bodyguards. (Granted, Felix had only had his own for five years, since someone had sent a Faceless after him, but still.)

The minutes passed painfully slowly, even as the panic from the other room began to calm down. Felix was sure his pacing didn’t help Ken concentrate, but it took the edge off his nerves.

Ken made a soft sound and moved to the side. Marzia stepped in the room, and Felix darted to her. 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Mary shook her head, saying something to Ken that Felix didn’t catch. 

“Cry’s trying to keep everyone calm. I lost PJ in the crowd—that new bodyguard of his moves fast.”

Felix sighed and pulled Marzia into an embrace. “Do we know what happened yet?”

“Not yet.” Mary glanced at them, then back to Ken. He gave her an uneasy grin, then walked into the hallway. Mary closed the door. “Ken’s going to try to find out, and keep anyone from stampeding or anything.”

“I should really give that man a pay raise,” Felix murmured.

“I don’t think he’d accept it.” Marzia shook her head.

Felix just took a deep breath and tried to keep himself calm. It wouldn’t do to worry Marzia more by overreacting himself.

He wasn’t quite sure how long it was until the door opened to reveal Ken once more. 

“It’s safe,” Ken said by way of explanation as he stepped in, Cry following closely behind. (Somehow Cry had found time to pull on his suit jacket and put on his mask, but Felix couldn’t imagine when.) “One of our lovely politicians overdosed on something or other—stepped into a side room when nobody was looking. There was no assassin.”

Cry closed the door. “Yeah, about that.”

All four of them looked at him, and Felix blinked. “There was an assassin?”

“Not for any of you guys, but yes.” Cry sighed. “He wasn’t the one to give himself an overdose.”

“Who did it, then?” Mary asked. “Is the assassin getting away?”

Felix, however, was just looking at Cry. It was times like this he couldn’t help but remember how the two of them had met. 

“Cry. Did you kill him?” Felix wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Cry let out a long breath. “Yes.”

“But why?”

“Orders.” Cry shrugged a shoulder. The implications were clear to whoever knew what Cry really was.

“Why did the Faceless want him dead?” Ken asked.

“I can’t tell you that.” Cry sighed again. “Look, I’m sorry I ruined your party this way, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you beforehand, but I didn’t want to stress out either of you. Besides, it’s not like you would have let me do anything if you’d known.”

“You could have let me know anyway.” Felix scowled at him. “It’s not like I can stop you when you put your mind to it, but a cordial ‘Hey, someone’s going to die tonight,’ would have been a useful warning.”

Cry made some sort of grumbling sound. “I already apologized. What more do you want?”

Felix let out a long breath, only to have Marzia take both of his hands in hers.

“What other secrets have you been keeping from me?” Felix snapped. 

Marzia squeezed his hands, but Felix kept his gaze on Cry.

Cry tapped a gloved hand on his mask, clearly thinking. “Do you really want an answer to that?”

“Would I have asked otherwise?”

Cry shrugged slightly. “You ask a lot of rhetorical questions.” He put his hands behind his back. “If you really want, I’ll answer that, but not in front of everyone here. There are some secrets I can’t let everyone hear. Makes them less secret.”

Felix’s jaw tightened slightly. “Fine.”

Cry dipped his head.

Both were completely silent as they walked to a new room and Cry closed the door, the soft click carrying much more anger than it should have.

“Spill your secrets,” Felix demanded.

“Well, I guess a good place to start is that there’s someone in town who wants me dead.” Cry put a thoughtful hand to his chin. “You saw that at Freddy’s, though. And I never actually retired from the Faceless; they just ordered me to stick around you. I do a surprising amount of murdering at night, when you’re asleep. Don’t ask me too many questions about that, I don’t want you getting arrested for helping a murderer.”

Felix stared coldly at him. “How many times have you used my position to kill someone?”

“Ah.” Cry sighed. “That’s what this is about.” He dropped his hands to his side. “Tonight was the first time. It wasn’t my idea, if that helps at all.”

“Then who gave the order? Who decided you could use me?!” Felix was shouting now, but he didn’t care.

“Felix,” Cry said evenly. “Shut up and let me talk. You’ll attract attention.”

Felix opened his mouth to yell again, then clamped it shut and settled for glaring.

“Thank you.” Cry sighed. “Orders were delivered by another Faceless, a couple days ago. They were given by one of the local Faceless leaders: the Wolf. I can’t tell you much more about him, except maybe a bit of motivation for why?” Cry shrugged. “But I’d be guessing on that.”

“And why, exactly, would this ‘Wolf’ want one of my guests dead?”

“Your dead guest was funding the Russian mob,” Cry said flatly. “Nobody wants them to get power back. Nobody.”

Felix crossed his arms. “So you killed him.”

“Yes.” Cry straightened his shoulders. “I did. And if I hadn’t, it would only be a matter of time before they came after you one way or another.”

Felix scowled again.

“What other secrets have you been keeping, then? Any more plans to use me for your precious Faceless?”

“Not from me, there aren’t.” Cry shook his head. “Anyway, you wanted to know another secret I’ve been keeping?”

Felix nodded.

“Well, you remember Detective Bluemoon? I followed him home after the poker game.” Cry chuckled. “That was an experience.”


	34. Cabbage Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It should be updated with every new chapter we post!
> 
> Today's tune:  
> My Little Brown Book- Duke Ellington, John Coltrane

Jack and Link paused in their conversation as the spuds raced into the warehouse, Chica trailing happily behind. They’d just come back from visiting Willy, who was now living at a small house Mark had found. Willy was alright—or he would be—but the fight with Rhett had most definitely marked the end of Willy’s career in the McLaughlin Boys.

“The oldest spuds aren’t trained enough, and nobody wants them out tomorrow night,” Link admitted. “I honestly don't know if we have all the men we're going to need.”

“It’s too dangerous to bring them into it,” Jack agreed. “They’re too young.” He frowned. “Where are we most likely to have conflicts, then? We’ll have to prioritize.”

The two had already been through at least part of this conversation before, trying to decide where best to put men for Halloween night. For once, they weren’t planning on committing any crimes (though should the opportunity present itself nobody was going to argue), but instead focusing their efforts and manpower on defending what they already had.

And when you controlled as much territory as the mob, you had quite a bit to cover.

“What about Freddy's?” Link asked. “Do you think anyone will try to do anything to it?”

“As much as I’d like to say no, there’s got to be someone with a big enough beef with one of the Fischbachs that they’ll do something. Or perhaps someone eager enough to commit crimes they won’t care who owns the place.” Jack drummed his fingers on the table. That something could be robbery, seeing as it was such a successful restaurant, or it could be something mocking half of Mark’s parentage.

“Do you think the bulls would do anything for it? Since it’s connected to the judge’s family?”

Jack shook his head. “They’ll be running themselves ragged just trying to keep up with the amateur criminals.” He frowned again. “I'll take it myself. Freddy's will be closed—Mark’s not going to want the trouble being open on Halloween will bring—and I know the area better than anyone else here.”

Link conceded the point with a nod. “You want backup?”

Jack made a face. “If we have the men for it, but I'm hoping it'll be all quiet. If not, well, I'm the best shot we’ve got and nobody even has to touch me.” Jack reached and pulled out his pistol, absently checking the chamber and magazine. It was, of course, loaded, since an unloaded gun didn't offer much in the way of a weapon.

Link nodded. “Good luck with that.”

“I don't need luck.” Jack said it quietly, as a fact rather than bragging. “I've got my gun.”

\-----

There were few things purer than a baby’s laugh, PJ decided as he made his way to the godfather’s room. Puppies, maybe. The joy of seeing his friends at Freddy's, for sure.

Sophie's smile.

No. PJ frowned at himself. He would not go down that trail of thought. He was still spending far too much time thinking about her. They'd broken up; there wasn't any point in thinking about her. 

Though if Jordan, Mark, Jack or Felix had asked, he would have admitted he still loved her. He hadn't seen her in weeks now, but he couldn't find it in himself to forget her.

Though at least he’d been able to keep a regular sleep schedule since returning to play at Freddy's. 

(He was fairly sure the godfather thought PJ was headed somewhere else completely, but no comments on either Orchids or brothels in general had been made to his face, so he hadn't had to lie about it yet.)

_ “Good afternoon, PJ,”  _ Yami greeted as PJ entered the godfather's room.  _ “Glad to see you up before noon.” _

PJ smiled, though he hoped neither Yami nor the godfather would comment on how he was running on less than five hours of sleep. Consistent sleep didn't mean long sleep.

_ “I was told you wanted to speak to me?”  _ PJ looked between Yami and the godfather.

_ “It’s about the arms deal,”  _ Yami explained.  _ “One of the people involved decided to change the rules on us. The other one turned him in.” _

PJ frowned. Ah. That was a problem.  _ “I see. What’s the situation?” _

_ “He’s planning on only giving us half our share and claiming the entire order was skimped on, then selling what he stole later.” _

The godfather chuckled.  _ “Did he not remember how he became an associate?” _

_ “Apparently not.” _

PJ crossed his arms and put a hand to his chin, thinking. The particular man under consideration had been found when he’d been selling weapons on the black market—which wouldn’t have been a problem, competition was fine, except he’d been buying Family weapons and then reselling them for a higher price.

_ “This is tomorrow’s shipment, right?”  _ PJ glanced up from his pondering.

Yami nodded, then returned to casual conversation with the godfather. That wasn’t too unusual: the godfather liked seeing what PJ suggested for various problems. He was definitely testing PJ’s readiness to become the head of the whole Family. (Hopefully that day wouldn’t come for years yet.)

PJ finally looked up.  _ “Is Zombie occupied with anything tomorrow night?” _

_ “I believe he was planning on spending the night with Latin,”  _ the godfather supplied.  _ “He’s mentioned feeling like he was neglecting her.” _

PJ sighed.  _ “Well, I’ll need him. I’ll break the news to him myself. He’s the best  _ capo  _ for the job.” _

The godfather dipped his head.  _ “I assume you plan to go with him, then?” _

PJ nodded.  _ “This needs a more personal touch to it.”  _ It had, admittedly, been a while since PJ had gotten his hands dirty with Family work, but there was only one way to make sure the man wouldn't cross them again.

The godfather smiled. 

\-----

Wade leaned over Molly’s shoulder, looking at the list she was compiling. “Drake Henning? Isn’t he getting to be a bit of a liability?” He was, of course, referring to one of the cops Molly had bribed.

“Maybe,” Molly admitted. “Last time he gave me info, he said he was sure there was a Faceless spy at the precinct. He seemed convinced, but he didn’t have any evidence to give me.”

Wade frowned. “Have you asked Minx about it?”

“She’s not exactly an active member of the Faceless right now.” Molly tapped her paper. “She gets limited information since she takes so few jobs.”

Wade shrugged. “I mean, it’s worth a try.”

Molly tilted her head. “This is true.” She frowned. “Drake’s supposed to give me any info he finds on that as soon as he can, so I guess we’ll see if he actually has any sort of proof soon enough.” She sighed. “Anyway, does the rest of the list look good?”

Wade scanned it, then nodded. “Dlive, Entoan, Ritz... they’ve all been reliable on Halloween night before. They’re great at pretending the others don’t exist.” Wade paused, then frowned. “Are we really bringing JP into Halloween?”

Molly looked at her list again, the list of the men who would be functioning as Wade’s minions for Halloween night. “Yeah. He said he wanted to help this year.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like we can send him to Freddy’s for safekeeping, not with Mark closing the doors for the night.”

“Is he fully aware what he’ll need to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll make sure to tell him.” Molly moved to get up, but Wade shook his head.

“No, I’ll tell him. If he’s aware, I’ll keep him on the list. You focus on making sure the girls are safe.” Wade kissed her forehead, then walked off, presumably to find JP.

Molly sighed and looked back at her list. Halloween was always such an eventful night. For crime in general, but it was always of a much more personal level for the Orchids. They’d be spending hours cleaning the blood from the warehouse once the night ended.

She couldn’t wait for it to be over, and for another year to pass until she had to deal with it again.

At least it wouldn’t go like last year. Detective Jason Parker was dead and couldn’t walk in on any of the murders.

\-----

Bob was many things. He was a police officer, a man of the law. He was a husband. He was a friend. He was the only bull to visit Freddy’s who didn’t take bribes to keep quiet about it. 

He was also sure his patrol partner was either slightly crazy, or taking bribes from one of the mobs.

Or both. Both was always an option.

“Are you listening?” Drake asked quietly.

Bob glanced over. “Not really, no.”

Drake made a face. “I mean, at least you’re honest about it. What’re you thinking about?”

Bob shrugged, picking up the pace slightly to get back to the precinct faster. “Tomorrow.” This was, at least, not untrue. Halloween had been weighing on the mind of every good law enforcement officer.

Drake let out a sound of agreement. “This is a good thing to think about.” He frowned. “Do you think the Faceless spy will cause problems?”

Bob sighed. There it was. Again. “What makes you think there’s a Faceless spy? Did you miss the memo about them being a joke?”

“But what if they aren’t? What if it’s just an excuse an undercover person created to keep us from investigating trails?”

Bob glanced over his shoulder to see Drake giving him an earnest look, and he shook his head. “Alright. Say Faceless do exist, and they do have a spy among us. Who would it be?”

Drake shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe MatPat? The guy’s a genius—just look at all the cases he’s solved—but he’s also put dozens of cases down as unsolvable. As Faceless crimes.” A pause. “I mean, it could explain why Jason died under such mysterious circumstances. He found out and MatPat had to take steps.”

“You really think he would have gotten away with that?” Bob snorted. “Jason’s case was closed: he drank himself to death, there wasn’t any murder involved.”

“But what if that’s what the Faceless want us to think?”

Bob resisted the temptation to rub his face. “Drake, what caused all this? Do you really think MatPat’s a member of fictional organized crime? You think MatPat killed Jason?” He shook his head. 

“Well, yeah. He wouldn’t want anyone to find out what he was.”

“Then why would he have so willingly taken on Gar? If what you’re saying is true, he would have fought having a partner.”

Drake frowned. “I guess he wanted someone malleable, someone he could manipulate into helping him. So if anyone ever took the fall, it wouldn’t be him.”

“Gar’s no idiot himself.” Bob sighed. “Why would he fall for that?”

“Young and inexperienced. I wouldn’t be surprised if MatPat’s even managed to convince Gar to protect him if I told everyone about this.”

Bob shook his head as they entered the precinct. His partner was definitely crazy. But before he could say anything more on the matter, he was pulled aside by the chief for one of those annual “there’s going to be a lot of trouble tomorrow and you’re being pulled in to work even though it means you’ll be pulling a double shift” speeches of his.

Drake, of course, slipped off. Probably going to tell someone else his crazy theories.

Bob knew the drill for Halloween by now, of course; and he’d get detailed instructions tomorrow. He’d been doing the whole cop scene for years by now, after all. This wouldn’t be his first showdown.

That thought on his mind, Bob let his gaze drift around the room. There was, however, someone who had never done Halloween here before.

Where was Gar? There was MatPat, engaged in some sort of conversation. Had he already spoken with the rookie detective to warn him of what was coming?

Where was Drake, for that matter?

Bob was so occupied in trying to find his partner that he almost didn’t notice when the chief walked off to torment someone else. 

Bob frowned briefly and headed down to the detective offices. Maybe Gar and Drake had gotten talking or something.

Just before he got to MatPat and Gar’s office, the door opened and Drake stumbled out, looking more than a little pale. Drake glanced over his shoulder, then shuddered, before taking off in the opposite direction. All Bob got was a mumbled, “I gotta go.”

Curious despite himself, Bob glanced in the doorway to see Gar sitting at his desk, staring in the direction Drake had gone. There was something inexplicably chilling in Gar’s gaze.

Bob decided it was better not to ask and instead turned around and headed home.


	35. La Vigilia di Ognissanti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It should be updated with every new chapter we post!
> 
> Today's tune:  
> Something Sweet, Something Tender- Eric Dolphy

PJ pulled his coat tighter around him to protect from the crisp, nearly frigid wind. Winter was almost here, waiting just around the corner. Waiting for October to end at midnight, and November to take its place.

The gravestone in front of him didn’t seem to care. Not that he was particularly surprised about that, as it was a rock. Rocks tended not to care about much of anything.

“Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if you were still alive,” PJ said softly. He knew every distinctive feature on this gravestone, even as grand as it was. He’d been visiting it for some thirteen years, after all. 

Wiggles’ empty grave didn’t answer.

PJ sighed. “You’d be in my spot, and I’d still be a  _ capo _ .” Oh, how that would have made life easier. “You’d be dealing with all this mess, and I...”

He could have left the Family. He could have left to follow his own dreams and passions, he could have left to be with Sophie, he could have left and lived a life far away from everything he knew now.

“Well.” PJ shook his head. “There’s not much point in dwelling on that. You’re dead. You’re dead because I didn’t stop Wald.” He rubbed his hands over his face. Granted, nobody had expected nine-year-old Wald to be attacking an adult (albeit a 20-year-old), but he still could have done something.

He hadn’t, though. And Wiggles had fallen into the river and his body never retrieved. PJ then became the favorite to take over the Family (other than his heritage, he honestly wasn’t quite sure why).

PJ let his hair fall in front of his face. “You had quite the reputation, you know.” It was something he and Wald would talk about for hours on end, back when they nearly idolized him. Wiggles had been quite ruthless when he needed to be. Maybe that was why PJ had become the new favorite; he’d spent all of his free time around the guy.

“You’re still talked about quietly. People are still scared of you, scared that you’ll come back from the dead—or that you faked your death.”

He stood there a minute longer. Then, “If you don’t mind, I’m going to use that to my advantage.”

With that, he turned and walked away.

On his way out of the graveyard, PJ paused by a small headstone. He placed a hand on its cold surface, and almost smiled. “I’m still standing, old friend,” he murmured softly, then continued on his way. 

\-----

PJ wasn't sure he liked wearing paint on his face, but it had to be done. It was time to make people think Wiggles had returned. 

It was just to mess with them, really. Instill some healthy fear.

The whole thing wasn't a perfect match, no. PJ was much taller than Wiggles had ever been, and he still looked different under the paint. His voice was noticeably different (but most people who'd see him wouldn't have heard Wiggles’, so that was alright). Anyway, he could disguise his own voice well enough to not have his soon-to-be crimes connected to him.

But if he didn't send people screaming with one good look at him, he was doing it wrong.

His persona required quite a bit more than just the face paint, of course. He'd ditched his usual suit and instead went for the much more casual look of rolled up sleeves and suspenders. 

His revolver was tucked into the small of his back, ready to send specific messages with his bullets, but the traditional submachine gun used by the Family was sitting casually and professionally in his hand.

“You're going to freeze.” Zombie's voice entered the room before his body. 

PJ glanced over and shrugged. “I'll roll down the sleeves if I need to.”

Zombie raised an eyebrow. “If you're sure.”

PJ nodded, smiling despite everything on his mind. “I'm sure.”

Zombie looked at him for a long minute, then nodded. “Let's go, then. I promised Latin I'd be back by midnight.”

PJ shrugged. “We have three hours to commit the crimes, then.”

Zombie just nodded.

The two of them weren’t going alone, of course. Some of Zombie’s men were coming with them. (He didn’t ask how many of them were coming just to make sure PJ came out of this alive—he didn’t particularly want the answer to that.) PJ and Zombie were the only ones in that particular automobile, though.

“You know what would terrify people more than seeing you like you are now?” Zombie said casually as he drove. 

PJ glanced over at him.

“If you had the same affinity for explosives that Wiggles did.”

PJ laughed softly. “That it would, but I’d rather not accidentally explode any of our men. Or myself, for that matter.”

Zombie made a vague noise of agreement.

\-----

The docks were dark, and quiet. Not surprising; most people weren’t going to be trying to ship anything in at ten at night. In fact, there was just one scheduled for tonight.

It was in the process of being unloaded.

PJ remained in a crouch, hiding himself in the shadows. Sure, he and the others could reveal themselves now, but then they’d have to be the ones to unload everything. It was much simpler to wait until that was done.

Zombie tapped PJ’s shoulder and nodded to a man standing apart from the others, dimly illuminated by the lights. That was the guy who had tried to shortchange them, then. PJ would be dealing with him personally.

For the moment, though, PJ was more concerned about the figures hovering in the shadows. Bulls. Six of them. Quite a lot for a simple weapons shipment, but maybe they just wanted to make sure no criminals would try to steal their firearms.

PJ smiled softly. Well, a few more deaths wouldn’t make that much of a difference in the long run. It wasn’t like he hadn’t killed cops before, either.

“Should have brought Jordan,” Zombie muttered softly.

PJ conceded the point with a dip of the head. Having a sniper with them really would have made this easier, but not by much. Jordan would have been able to take out one of the bulls before they were engaged in the inevitable gunfight. Though in the darkness, he might not have even been able to do that.

He and Zombie were both excellent shots, though, so they would have to do.

Finally, the time came. The last of the shipment had been unloaded, and stacked in the back of a small truck.

Zombie glanced at PJ, clearly waiting for the signal to begin the slaughter. Under normal circumstances, Zombie would be giving that order, but since PJ was here the responsibility fell to him. 

PJ waited until the bulls had stopped glancing around and had turned their attention to the truck before giving a nod.

With the smooth professionalism typical of everything Zombie touched, they stepped away from walls and barriers and opened fire on the unsuspecting dock workers and bulls. Two dock workers threw themselves behind a low brick wall—PJ would get to them in a moment.

The bulls fired back, of course, but not nearly effectively enough to dissuade the attack. One of Zombie’s nearby men crumpled, but a quick glance proved him to be clutching his arm. It wasn’t immediately fatal, then.

Good. The Family could deal with injuries. It was much more difficult to replace the men.

The last of the bodies fell into the spreading pool of blood, and PJ raised his hand. Suddenly, everything was silent. They would, of course, put a bullet into each and every one of the dozen or so bodies to ensure they were dead, but this would do for now.

A quick word from Zombie and a few of his men darted to the truck, while Zombie and PJ walked over to the two cowards hiding behind the wall.

The shadows failed to hide the terrified expressions before them. PJ pulled out his revolver and casually spun the chamber, Zombie stopping a few feet behind him.

The men’s eyes flicked to it, but neither of them said anything. The one on the right, PJ didn’t know—but the one on the left was the man who’d shortchanged them.

PJ smiled. “What, did the bulls offer a more appealing payment for your services?” The voice that came out of his mouth was not his own; boasting not a British accent, but one of New York. It wasn’t a perfect replica of Wiggles’ imitation, but it was quite close, and that was good enough.

The rat flicked his gaze to Zombie. He swallowed hard as PJ clicked the chamber into the gun. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Neither were the bulls.” PJ tilted his head, making a soft tsk sound. “Or you shortchanging us.” He slid the hammer back, looking the man in the eyes.

“Wait!” The man gasped, scrambling back into the wall. “Who are you?  _ What _ are you? A clown?”

PJ smirked. “They call me Wiggles.” He pulled the trigger. The man’s body slumped.

“The worst clown you’ll ever meet.”

The second man bolted. PJ was sure he could hear panicked whimpering.

“Let him go,” PJ called over his shoulder. “We need someone to spread the news.”

PJ slipped the revolver back into its hidden place, then grinned at Zombie. That had been exhilarating.

“I’m glad I don’t have to clean up the bodies.” Zombie gave a cursory glance at the limp corpse in front of them. 

PJ made a face. “Why’d you have to bring that up?”

Zombie just smiled, then led the way back to his men.

“Let’s get these back.” Zombie signaled to one of his men, and the truck drew away from the dock. “I’ll get the rest training with them.”

PJ grinned. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” The two of them approached their automobile. “Not much point in going through all that effort if we don’t know how to use them.” He chuckled softly. “Finally, a step towards getting territory back from those damn potatoes.”

PJ let out a breath, his breath curling in the dim light. Very suddenly, he was aware of just how cold it was. “Now we’ve got to mash any of them who stand in our way.”

Zombie nodded, then clapped PJ on the shoulder. “You know, if Wiggles was alive today, he’d be proud.”


	36. Faithless Faceless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Updated with every chapter.
> 
> Today's tune:  
> Aisha - John Coltrane

The Faceless headquarters in Boston were old. None of the BBC knew exactly how old, but they were definitely old. The deeper they went, the more obvious it got: thick brick walls turned into stone, odd mechanisms allowed for sunlight in and no sound out, and secret passages ran everywhere.

It was, at least, not as old as the headquarters in Québec. Those ones were really old.

“I wonder which of us is in the most trouble,” Vanoss casually broke the silence. 

“What makes you think we’re all in trouble?” Del protested. “It’s been a whole month since we broke any rules.”

Vanoss’ eyeroll was practically audible. “Really? After what went down at Freddy’s? Wrestling, harassing customers, getting into a gentleman’s duel with the owner, pulling knives, attacking another Faceless... none of that sounds like something we’d get in trouble for?”

Soft grumbles came in response. Then, “Yeah, by the way, Ohm: why’d you attack him?” Del asked. “Who is he, and what did he do to you?”

Ohm grunted. “None of your business.”

The other three members of the BBC glanced at each other. While none of them could see it, all had raised at least one eyebrow. 

“I can answer part of that,” Vanoss finally said. “His name’s Cryaotic. Goes by Cry, I believe. The Wolf had me deliver orders to him a week ago. Found him at Kjellberg’s—apparently he’s permanently stationed there, for whatever reason.”

“You had to give orders to him?” Toonz shook his head. “Did he try to kill you?”

“Actually, no. He was very chill about it. Didn’t even indicate he recognized my voice from Freddy’s.”

Soft murmurs of surprise came from the other two. Ohm, however, remained stubbornly silent.

In fact, Ohm continued to remain silent, even as they emerged into the main training area. 

Instantly, the youngest trainees flitted to them, obviously excited to see fully active Faceless around. Those out on the floor didn’t react to them, though that wouldn’t last for long.

None of them could help but answer the never-ending stream of questions emerging from the pre-teens, at least until they managed to slide past them and make their way into the sparring area. 

The spacious courtyard was made with the same stone as everything else, but it was significantly more scuffed and scratched here. Sunlight—weak, but still there—filtered down from gaps in the ceiling, lighting the dust motes kicked up from every movement. 

“Hey, over there.” Vanoss pointed to the far end of the courtyard, where two familiar masks were sitting reading something, completely ignoring the sparring going on ten feet away. It was the masquerade mask and the lion mask from the Freddy’s night. “What were trainees doing wandering around by themselves?”

As if able to hear him, the two looked up. Two trainees sparring nearby paused, then turned to face the BBC as well.

More than one of the BBC muttered a curse under their breath when they saw the blank purple mask and the fox mask from the library.

“They were trainees too?” Del shook his head. “How’re they so freaky?”

“I thought you weren’t scared of them,” Toonz challenged.

“Look, that purple one is terrifying.”

Ohm shook his head and shoved past them. “Come on. Let’s just get this over with.”

The four skirted along the edge of the courtyard, casting a few glances as purple and fox went to sit next to masquerade and lion. 

They passed the well-established medical ward; past the trainees focusing on learning from Faceless doctors, and other trainees being the subjects of object lessons (likely a result of having gotten hurt doing something stupid). 

By the time they were approaching the offices, all four were pulling themselves a bit more snugly into their coats. Once they arrived at one particular office, they’d all fallen into a sort of petrified silence.

The door to the Wolf’s office was open, and a glance inside proved the man to be there—though he was facing away from the door and looking over the sparring grounds through his window. Of course he was doing that, he was Boston’s head trainer. Oftentimes, he was left to manage not only the trainees but  _ all  _ of Boston’s Faceless as he saw fit.

“You can come in.” The Wolf’s head turned slightly, as if he was glancing back at them, but he made no effort to move.

The four of them glanced at each other, muttered various kinds of pleas for not too harsh of a punishment, and entered the office.

The Wolf finally turned and walked to his desk, scratching a small dog—a corgi—sitting on the floor as he settled into his chair. 

“I know some trainees with more sense than you four. You’re all quite the troublemakers, aren’t you,” The Wolf mused softly. “First you ran an unapproved bank robbery, then you interrupted the senior research of two trainees to find out how to best get drunk. You destroyed quite a bit of property with inexplicable explosions and had to be stopped from instigating a fight with two other trainees when you encountered them in the street.

“And after all of that, you not only made fools of yourselves in public—which isn’t explicitly against the rules, but certainly does say something about your character—but you also pulled knives in public. One of you even tried to kill another Faceless, and succeeded in drawing blood.” The Wolf tapped his desk. “What am I to do with you?”

The four of them stood in silence, unsure of what to say.

The corgi, however, borked.

“Hmm, perhaps.” The Wolf sounded amused. “Before I come to a conclusion about your punishments-” he said this as if the BBC didn’t know their punishments had already been decided before they were even called in- “what do you have to say to defend yourselves?”

“Look, don’t get mad at the trainees.” Vanoss stepped forward. “That was all our fault.”

“They stole our money!” Del protested, despite himself. “We got back and all the safe had in it was a potato and a toy fox.”

The Wolf laughed. “Yes, but they got permission to do that.”

“If it helps any,” Vanoss continued, “none of us are going back to Freddy’s. We learned our lessons from that.”

The Wolf sighed. “Ohm?”

Ohm lifted his head, but remained silent.

“Your animosity towards Cry is a result of 1918, correct?”

Ohm hesitated, then nodded.

The other three members of the BBC exchanged a glance. What was the Wolf talking about?

“His having mercy on you doesn’t change the fact that he bested you.”

“I know.” Ohm’s voice was quiet, subdued. “But he shouldn’t have done it.”

“You’d rather be dead?” The Wolf sounded faintly surprised at that. “Most people in your position do end up that way.”

Ohm sighed. “No.” He groaned. “It’s complicated.”

“I see.” The Wolf paused. “Still, you drew blood, and you were aiming to kill him. You’ll have your own punishment for that, which we’ll discuss shortly.” He glanced around the group. “Now, as you four seem to have far too much time on your hands and an inability to spend it productively, you have an assignment tonight. A punishment, if you will. It will require stealth and silence.”

“We can’t be stealthy and silent,” Vanoss protested. “Some people can’t  _ shut up.” _ He sent a glare at the others.

“You’ll have to be,” The Wolf said simply. “My son’s life could depend on it.”

All four of them straightened up from their slouches and stared at him.

“We’re doing what with the Wolf Pup?” Toonz was the first to speak.

“You’re watching him.” The Wolf’s voice commanded even more of their attention now. “He’s going to be out all night, and your job is to make sure he doesn’t end up hurt—or worse—without making yourself known.”

“Isn’t he undercover somewhere?” Vanoss asked hesitantly.

The Wolf nodded. “I’ll give you his description, and the description of his partner, but you have to stay out of sight once you find them. His partner isn’t a Faceless. Revealing yourself could reveal him.”

“And that’s bad. Got it.” Del nodded.

“I’m glad you understand.” The Wolf paused, glancing at the corgi now wandering the room. “Gentlemen?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If my son dies, I will have your masks.”

\-----

“You know,” Del whispered as they watched the Wolf Pup less than an hour later, “he’s awfully old for a trainee.”

“I was older,” Ohm said, his voice still void of any emotion.

“Were you?” Del  _ hmm _ -ed. “I guess you had to be.” He turned his attention back to the two figures half a block away. “He’s pretty young for what he’s doing here, though. I would have expected someone older. Someone who has their second mask.”

“He’s the top of his class.” Vanoss shrugged. “They’re trying to challenge him. Besides, he’s only a couple months younger than I am.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Del waved off the comment.

They followed the Wolf Pup and his companion in silence for a bit.

“So call me a spoilsport,” Toonz finally murmured, “but if it comes down to a fight, how are we supposed to avoid being spotted by his partner? There’s no way he’d miss us.”

“If it comes down to a fight I’d rather be seen than have the kid die.” Ohm’s voice left no room for argument.

The others exchanged a glance. None of them had heard what Ohm’s punishment for attacking Cry had been, but it couldn’t have been good with the way he was acting.

They fell into silence for a bit (more out of fear of getting caught than any desire to not converse) until Del cleared his throat.

“What is it?” Vanoss glanced away from the Wolf Pup.

“Someone already did the breaking part of the breaking and entering.” Del nodded to a jewelry store.

“Nuh-uh.” Vanoss was already shaking his head. “You want to risk the Wolf Pup dying on our watch? I’m not losing my mask tonight.”

“He’s got someone with him. He’ll be fine for a bit while we grab stuff,” Toonz argued.

“Guys.” Ohm cut across the beginning argument. “How do you feel about running?”

“What? No way.” Del shook his head.

Vanoss spun to see the Wolf Pup and his partner taking off down the street, with Ohm trailing them on the rooftops, and cursed. Then, as he turned back around, he swore again as the other two beelined towards the jewellery store.

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, with light, hurried steps he raced across the tiles, following after Ohm.


	37. "Kidnapped or Kindness: Killers Kept Kin"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Updated with every chapter.
> 
> Today's tune:  
> Footprints- Wayne Shorter

_ Friday, September 13, 1919 _

_ Jeremiah Woodward, age 14, has vanished after the death of his family on Monday. Witnesses distinctly recall a young man matching his description being approached by a tall, armed man shortly before the gunfire stopped. _

_ While nobody has been able to give a clear description of the man’s appearance, many say they didn’t see him until the fighting began. Police suspect this man is Rhett McLaughlin, who may now be leading the McLaughlin Boys after his father’s death, and have begun a search for him and the missing Woodward child. _

_ This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil. _

The last few lights flicked off, leaving the Tiny Box dark (save for a single one, somewhere in the back). There was a slight jingle of keys on a ring; Mark was fishing them from a pocket as he walked Amy and Kathryn to the waiting automobile. Despite the distance, Jack could still hear Mark say, “It’s okay, I’ll keep Mom company. Nothing happened last year. You don’t need to worry so much.”

Jack blinked in surprise. He wasn’t aware Mrs. Fischbach was staying the night here. Granted, it was her restaurant, and he certainly wasn’t surprised Mark was staying to make sure she was safe, but he would have thought they’d all leave. Mark and Mrs. Fischbach didn’t even live here; that was Amy and Kathryn.

An engine purred softly, and Jack watched as Ethan drove Amy and Kathryn into the night. For a second, Ethan caught Jack’s gaze, but he continued on without so much as a pause. 

Jack nodded to himself, quietly reaching to where his pistol lay against the small of his back. He hadn’t dared bring his rifle—not when he didn’t know how much running he was going to be doing. Besides, he was trying to avoid attracting attention to himself.

Mark’s silhouette shifted around, lit by that last light, and his locking the doors sent an audible  _ click _ to where Jack was lurking.

Jack pulled his pistol into his hand, but kept both inside his coat for the sake of warmth. It was quite a chilly night, and he didn’t want to freeze up the joints in his hand. Or himself, in general.

Jack settled against the wall. Hopefully it would be a long and quiet night, with no trouble whatsoever. Especially with both Mrs. Fischbach and Mark inside.

From where he stood, he could see the front of the restaurant decently well. It wasn’t perfect, but he’d be seen from anywhere else. And here, here he would wait out the night in relative silence.

Down a few buildings some candles burned in the window, lighting the street as drunken silhouettes stumbled past. It reminded Jack of an old story, one he barely remembered.

There was a drunk (ironically, named Jack) who was sly enough to trick the devil, but when he died, heaven wouldn’t let him in. In hell, the devil himself was too scared to take his soul, so Jack was forced to wander the world in darkness, never moving on. To light his own way, he made a lantern out of a turnip and a lump of coal: a Jack-o’-lantern.

It became tradition to use candles and lanterns as a way to guide lost souls through the night.

The relative silence of Halloween night was quite literally shattered by the sound of breaking glass. Delicate shards tumbled to the brick sidewalk and the hardwood flooring inside the dining room of the Tiny Box. Larger, jagged pieces clung uselessly to the window frame. Upstairs, where Mark and Mrs. Fischbach had retreated to, there were shouts and soon lights flickering on in the much smaller, intact windows. It didn't perturb the culprit, who was carefully attempting to pull himself through the busted window.

"Hey!" Jack was across the street and roughly grabbing at the back of his shirt, hauling him outside and onto the hard ground. The man hit with a thud and a grunt amidst the dusting of broken glass, his attacker looming over him. In the light of the electric lamps spotting the street, brilliant blue eyes were visibly narrowed into a vicious glower.

"Fuck you, you blue-nosin' bimbo! Mind your own damn business!" the would-be intruder snarled as he scrambled back to his feet.

"That establishment  _ is _ my business, maggot. Go chase yourself!" The Irish accent curled into a snarl of its own, Jack standing his ground with arms crossed tightly over his chest. The sounds of movement could be heard from within the now-exposed building.

"You stupid wurp, it's Halloween! I'm just havin' a bit of fun." Yet when the aggressor stepped forward, it was hardly a jovial gesture. His attempts to intimidate his sole obstacle were clear as the broken glass at their feet.

The Irishman's response was a swift movement of his own. The shift of an arm, the slide of his hand beneath his coat and the pointed glimpse of a firearm. The vandal stiffened.

"Well go have it somewhere else. This is McLaughlin territory, and I already got right enough to shoot yer tiny nuts off just for trespassin'."

The unarmed man didn't immediately move. Once more there was an Irish-tinged growl, "Move yer langer ass before I move it for yeh. Without yer body attached."

The threat was finally enough to make the man scurry off. The Irishman sighed once he was out of sight, tucking his weapon away again. He could hear footsteps within the Tiny Box and took it as his signal to move. However, as he dipped into the alley alongside the restaurant, he encountered another ballsy vandal.

The man was masked, and just finishing up with painting an awful slur in black against the bricks of the Tiny Box. Anger welled up within the Irishman and he balled his fists tightly. "HEY! YE GREAT FOOKIN' GEEBAG, I'M GONNA KICK YOUR SORRY ARSE INTO NEXT YEAR!" 

The painter, in his terror at being caught, immediately dropped his brush and booked it out the other side of the alley. The Irishman glanced once more at the word, curled his lip, then started the chase. He wasn't going to be lenient twice tonight. He wasn't going to let one more man get away with this.

Back inside the Tiny Box, a very distraught Mrs. Fischbach was lowering herself weakly into a chair. Her hand was pressed to her chest, still clad in only her gown and slippers from bed. Mark, also dressed in his pajamas, wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tried to steady her. "It's okay, Mom, it's okay. They're gone. It's just the window."

"Oh, the window… your father paid for those windows… ." The older woman's breath hitched, tears rimming her tired eyes. They appeared glued to the sparkling shards littering the dining room floor. "They were a birthday gift… ."

Mark's lips thinned into a tight line, but he swallowed down his own emotions to squeeze comfortingly at his mother's shoulders. "It'll be okay, Mom. At least no one was hurt."

Jack, however, had every intention of changing that. And while the painter was fast, Jack was just as fast—and he knew the streets much better.

They were, after all,  _ his _ streets.

More than a few shouts sounded as the painter, then Jack, tore past McLaughlin Boys and bulls alike. None of them tried to follow, but they did make it impossible for Jack to take a proper shot. What a story that would be: getting arrested for accidentally shooting one of his own men in front of a bull.

No, Jack would either have to catch up to this guy or wait until they were at a clear street.

It only took another minute longer for the painter to duck into an alley. Specifically, a dead-end alley.

Jack smirked, then came to a stop in the entrance. Just as he’d thought, the painter had arrived at the brick wall ahead and was frantically jumping, trying to grab the top and haul himself over.

Jack shook his head, pulling out his gun and stashing his left hand in its pocket. 

The painter turned, and whimpered.

“That was a very rude thing you did.” Jack shook his head and stepped into the alley, gun raised. A slight breeze picked up, likely an indicator of an incoming storm, sending his coat into lazy flaps. “Don’tcha know the Tiny Box is under the protection of the McLaughlin Boys?”

“Protection? You just want what’s inside!” the painter yelped.

Jack shrugged. “Nah.”

He leveled out the gun and took the shot, then turned to head back to the Tiny Box.

It truly was a dead end alley now.


	38. Course of Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Updated with every chapter.
> 
> Today's tune:  
> Seraphic Light- John Coltrane

Minutes had passed. All they’d heard was the hollow sound of their footsteps on the cobblestones, and their heavy breaths sending tiny white plumes into the chilly night air. As they slowed to a stop, they both re-buttoned their coats, preparing for the cold to sink in. Gar resisted the temptation to look up; up at the black sky, where only a few of the brightest stars shone through the gathering clouds—up at the rooftops. Especially up at the rooftops. 

“We can’t stop long,” MatPat warned, though he looked as tired as Gar felt. “We’re in danger if we sit still. And we need to stick to our route. Cover ground.”

Gar nodded, casually stretching his arm. “Is it always like this? Endless movement, and no chance to rest?”

“Usually it’s worse.” MatPat shook his head. “Although it has been oddly quiet, especially around us.” He frowned. “I wonder what’s going on.”

Gar glanced up despite himself, and in the process noted the clouds rolling in. “I mean, you’d know better than I.”

MatPat let out a nervous breath. “Let’s keep going. Don’t want to make ourselves more of a target than we already are.”

Gar nodded, standing up from the wall he’d been leaning against. “How much longer are we going to be out?” He’d been told “all night,” but that wasn’t very specific. And while he was sure this could certainly go all night, it was already close to two in the morning.

“Until sunrise.” MatPat gave an apologetic look. “I expect both of us will go home and instantly sleep. Try not to mess up your normal schedule too much, though; we’ve got regular work on the 2nd.” He paused. “Also, welcome to November.”

Gar shook his head. “Thanks. And don’t worry, I’ve functioned with less sleep.” He’d stayed up all night in the past, so this wasn’t his first time—although it was his first time staying up all night to chase down criminals.

“Does your dad know?”

Gar nodded. “Yeah. I doubt he’s waiting up.”

MatPat tilted his head in a sort of shrug. “Well, only five more hours before you can head back.”

Gar snorted, and the two picked up the pace of their walking.

If it had been any other night, it would’ve been odd for the chief to have them out doing normal police work. However, tonight they were needed. In the hours since darkness fell, they’d already caught the tail end of five crimes, taken reports for ten crimes they’d missed entirely, and arrested six people. 

This was, in fact, the longest moment of peace they’d had all night.

As such, Gar was really starting to feel his body’s complaints. This shift wouldn’t have been too bad, if they’d had time for a reasonable nap beforehand. But they’d just got off a normal shift doing detective things (creeping ever closer to the elusive Madame Foxglove speakeasy) and then had to go directly into this. There had also been no time for a proper meal, though Steph had ensured that both he and MatPat each had a quick bite to eat and a thermos of hot water for the night.

Gar was definitely going to sleep for an incredibly long time when he got home. Never mind he’d have to report the night’s events at some point, and he should probably record something about it in his detective journal, but those could wait.

The sky darkened as one of the incoming clouds rolled in over the moon, deepening shadows in the street. Both detectives hurried their steps.

For a split second, Gar thought he heard a slight echo of footsteps behind them.

Slowly, he dropped his hand to whatever weapon he reached first—in this case, his knife. He raised his left hand to get MatPat’s attention.

MatPat’s gaze flicked to Gar, and a resigned expression came across his face. MatPat shook his head just slightly, but his own hand gripped his nightstick.

For some reason, he was glad neither of them had chosen to go with their guns. It was a lot easier to get answers out of someone who wasn’t dead.

Something flickered in the alley just ahead, and someone shouted, and an arm darted around Gar’s neck, as if trying to put him in a chokehold.

Gar instinctively ducked, spinning fast to face his attacker. Some part of him noted the three shadowy forms hanging back, but most of him was occupied with the man standing in front of him.

“You think you’re so tough,” the man sneered, glaring at them. “You mud-eating pigs don’t know nothin’ about being tough.”

“Back off,” MatPat said in a polite-yet-unmistakably-dangerous tone.

The man smirked, then lunged for Gar once again.

Gar danced backwards, twisting out of range. He didn’t want to get too close to that alley; they had plenty of trouble to deal with as it was.

The man snarled, and MatPat darted in behind him. Gar didn’t see what happened next, but he heard a  _ crack _ and the man went down, howling.

Shouts broke across the street, and Gar glanced to see those shadowy figures darting towards them.

“Run.” MatPat grabbed his wrist and dragged him a good half of a block before Gar managed to get his arm free. The senior detective hadn’t seemed to notice the pile of bodies in the alley as they passed by, or the two masked figures with blood splattered across their clothes, or that one of those two were holding a shoulder as if injured.

Gar was too concerned with the men chasing them to even consider mentioning it.

Someone tackled him, sending him sprawling, rolling, and coming to a stop with the other man trying to pin him down. All the air whooshed out of him and pain shot across his ribs, forcing an involuntary cry of pain.

“Not so tough now, are you,” leered the man holding him down.

Gar tightened his grip on his knife and yanked his arm free, ignoring the pain that brought his ribs. The blade sliced through the man’s coat, and bit into the flesh under the crook of his shoulder.

The man rolled off Gar, screaming and clutching the wound.

It wasn’t the only cry of pain, though.

Gar scrambled to his feet, darting to MatPat, who had two other men on him. He grabbed one and pulled him away, slamming a palm into his face. The man stumbled back, holding his bloody nose in both hands.

Gar glanced at MatPat to make sure he was doing okay—he had managed to flip the final attacker off him, and was now ensuring the man would have quite the headache come morning—then ducked around the punch thrown at him. When Gar’s attacker went stumbling from a lack of impact, Gar shoved him forward into the ground.

A hand went around his wrist, and Gar went to shove at this attacker, only to have MatPat haul him down the street again.

It was significantly longer before MatPat let go of Gar and the two slowed to a stop. MatPat was struggling to catch his breath.

“Are you hurt?” MatPat demanded, hands on Gar’s shoulders. He seemed completely content to ignore the shallow cuts on his own face and hands.

Gar nodded, wrapping an arm around his ribs. He mouthed a curse as MatPat forced his hand aside. “What are you doING.” His voice went up an octave as MatPat’s prying fingers found the exact rib that was hurting. “Don’t do that! It hurts!”

“No cuts, at least.” MatPat grimaced. “That’s something.”

“What are you doing worrying about me?” Gar returned his hand to wrapping around his ribs and glared at MatPat. “Have you seen yourself?”

MatPat smiled, an expression that quickly jerked to one of pain. “Nope.”

Gar stared helplessly at him for a minute, then shook his head. “Do you have any broken bones?”

MatPat slowly tested his joints, grimacing at a few of them. “No, I don’t think so. We’ll have to get exams when we get back to the precinct to make sure, though.” He shook his head. “How did you fight and run with that?” He was clearly referring to Gar’s rib.

“I didn’t exactly stop to ask permission.” Gar winced as he took too deep of a breath and pain shot across his ribs.

“I think that’s a sign we’re done for the night.” MatPat made a face. “The chief can’t argue injuries, though.”

Despite himself, Gar sighed in relief.

The two stood there for a minute, just breathing, before Gar slowly pushed himself into a fully upright position. He kept his arm around his ribs, but did his best to give no other outward indication of his pain.

"A lot of crimes tonight.” Gar glanced the direction they’d come. “Think they’ll ever be found?”

"Oh, they’ll already have run.” MatPat’s voice had an unmistakable edge of dullness to it, probably from pain and exhaustion. “I doubt either of us will be able to identify them, in any case. Just another thing to get categorized as a Faceless crime, I suppose.” He shook his head. “Another thing for Drake to use as evidence for his conspiracy theory.”

Gar nodded, but didn’t say anything.

MatPat finally returned his nightstick to its resting place, then glanced at Gar’s knife. “Remember to clean that.”

“I know.” Gar smiled. “Take care of my weapons.”

MatPat nodded. “Let’s get back and get ourselves treated, before we go out again. Even if we’re wounded, they need every man they can get.”

They were only a few blocks away from their designated route when a shout sounded from a nearby alley—then a scream, and a series of rapid, sharp gunshots.

The two of them darted across the street, withdrawing their guns. Almost immediately, a familiar figure scrambled out of the alley, panic clear on his face.

“Patrck!” Gar shouted, concealing his wince as that sent a lance of pain through his side. 

Patrck yelped and twisted against the side of the building as gunshots snapped from the alley.

“Could use some help!”

MatPat was already pressed up against the building on their side of the alley, leaning just far enough over to peek down the narrow passageway.

“I’ve hardly got any shots left,” Patrck warned, “so any help would be useful.”

Gar slid up against the building himself, but he couldn’t see what was going on without putting himself in the gunman’s line of sight.

“Stay back,” MatPat ordered. 

“What?” Gar blinked. 

“You heard me.” MatPat’s tone gave no room for argument.

Well, too bad. Gar was going to argue anyway.

“I’m not letting you go into a fight alone!”

“Patrck is here. And you’re already hurt enough.” MatPat didn’t even glance over his shoulder. 

Gar glared at him harder, as if it would make MatPat look at him. “You’re bleeding.”

“You can argue later!” Patrck yelped as some more bullets sent shards of brick flying. “He’s getting bold—he’s moving close!”

MatPat turned his back away too, clearly focusing on the problem at hand.

Gar shook his head and muttered a curse, glancing around for any way to help. All he saw were the gathering stormclouds, barely illuminated by the moon peeking through.

He glanced back at MatPat and Patrck, but they were thoroughly focused on the gunman in the alley.

Gar darted away from the wall, away from MatPat and Patrck, and ran as fast as he could around the block to the other entrance to the alley. Each breath caught on the jagged pain shooting through his chest, but he remained silent.

Gar slipped his nightstick into his hand, then darted down the alley. The gunman was nearly at the entrance; he’d be shooting Patrck and MatPat soon. And, much to his alarm, the body of Patrck’s partner was between him and the gunman. 

Gar swallowed, but stepped lightly over the body in his way. His footsteps fell silently on the brick; he was a shadow behind the gunman—a shadow that had a nightstick in hand, swinging in a solid arc.

The gunman staggered, dropping his revolver to cradle his head. Instantly, Patrck was on the man, shoving him to the ground and taking quite a few punches in the process. MatPat darted to help, only to dodge as Patrck was thrown back, slamming against the wall. 

Then MatPat tackled the man, effectively landing a few hits of his own while Patrck struggled to regain his breath.

“Move!” Patrck gasped.

MatPat twisted.

A single gunshot sounded.

The man fell still, and MatPat lay on the ground, heaving for air in a growing pool of the other man’s blood. Patrck slowly curled up, his groans of pain clear, as his pistol clattered to the brick sidewalk.

As Gar stood in that narrow alley, looking down at the limp body of the man who’d just killed a cop, he couldn’t help but think of the sound of his nightstick hitting that man’s skull. He could really only describe it as a bonk.

He wasn’t sure why his mind was so focused on that detail, when he should be worrying about Patrck’s and MatPat’s wounds; about the fact he’d just disobeyed MatPat, his superior.

It had been a very clear, distinct bonk.


	39. The Ace of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Updated with every chapter.
> 
> Today's tune:  
> Playa del agua- Thelonious Monk Big Band

Molly’s heels clicked softly as she walked off the main floor of the warehouse to talk to Minx. She’d long tuned out the sounds of screams and pleas for mercy.

“The name Drake gave you checks out.” Minx didn’t look away from the main floor. Both of them knew Minx was referring to the name on the paper Drake had slipped under the door of one of the Greenhouses sometime during the day. 

“Really?” Molly blinked. “They told you that?”

Minx lifted a shoulder. “We’re not supposed to say anything to Drake.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure what’s going on with it, though.”

Molly sighed. “Any more men in that car of yours?”

“Nope.” Minx switched topics so easily one wouldn’t have known she was talking about something else entirely unless you’d heard her. “That’s the last of them.” She nodded to Dlive and Entoan, still in their police uniforms, dragging and shoving Bad Men onto the floor.

Molly nodded, turning her attention to the main floor. Blood coated the floor, some fresh, some long dried, and JP was working as fast as he could in the corner to get the bodies in bags and weigh them down.

“Good.” Molly bit her lip, glancing at the windows on the second story. “We only have an hour or so until dawn and we still have to finish them off and get them to the water.”

“Have the bulls help.” Minx shrugged. 

“I don’t think they’re  _ that _ corrupt.” Molly rolled her eyes. 

Whatever Minx was going to say was cut off by Wade walking up to them, entire body sagging with exhaustion and blood-spattered bat propped on one shoulder. “Ritz and I can’t kill them fast enough.” He wiped his hand on his his forehead, smearing blood. “We’re too tired and they’re too fresh.”

“Use knives. It’ll be faster, at least.” Minx suggested.

“Our knives aren’t deep enough to kill.” Wade protested. “Just to maim.”

“Then work faster, and you’ll get to bed faster.” Minx rolled her eyes. “It’s not hard.”

“I don’t see you helping.” 

Minx smirked. “I’m glad you noticed.”

Wade shook his head and trudged back to the main floor, then brought his bat down on someone squirming for the exit.

The resulting protest was a rather impressive string of curses.

“I don’t know why  _ you’re _ upset.” Wade kicked the man onto his back and planted a foot on his chest.  _ “I’m _ the one who has to keep going. You get to die and sleep. Forever.”

Dlive and Entoan walked over to JP and started helping him take care of the bodies, all the while chatting about something Molly couldn’t care less about. JP, however, stood and walked over to Molly.

“Can I help them?”

“Yes.” Minx said.

JP didn’t even glance at Minx. “I wasn’t asking you.”

Molly blinked at the request. “Are you ready for that?”

JP shrugged. “I mean, even if I can’t finish them off I can get them close and then either Wade or Ritz can do the final hit.”

Molly nodded. “Alright. Be careful.”

“Of course.” JP walked over to Wade, who gave a vague gesture towards the far wall before returning to his work, not once breaking his exhausted-yet-slightly-offended expression.

“I’m excited. Nothing like your first kill.” Minx grinned.

Molly frowned at her. “Why are you excited for that?”

“Oh, it’s a Faceless thing.” Minx put her hands behind her back. “You can’t graduate to being a full Faceless until you’ve killed someone.” She glanced over. “I poisoned some weird old guy.” She frowned. “I still don’t understand his decoration theme.”

Molly rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the main floor. “I’m going to go help them.”

“Hit some bone, if you’ve got the time.” Minx gave a very nasty grin.

Molly just stepped onto the main floor of the warehouse, heels clicking softly on the floor, and drew her knife.

JP glared at the man in front of him, who wasn’t even struggling against his bindings, getting a feel for the bat now in his hands.

“You know, I can’t imagine this is a good business practice,” the man smirked, “killing your clients, but that’s what you get for putting a woman in charge.”

JP paused, swinging the bat onto his shoulder and looking at Molly. Then he looked back at the man and shrugged, swinging the bat lightly. “I mean, it’s easier to get new clients than it is to get new workers.”

The man’s eyes widened, and JP swung the bat directly onto the man’s jaw. 

Now he couldn’t say mean things about anyone.

That done, JP squared his shoulders and really started swinging. He even made sure to hit the places Wade had pointed out in their lessons. It wouldn’t do to develop bad murder techniques just because he was in a hurry.

But still, he couldn’t bring himself to swing that one final time, to stop the limp form under him from breathing.

JP frowned, even as Wade walked up. “I couldn’t do it.”

“I appreciate you saving me most of the work.” Wade brought his own bat down with a sickening crunch. “Now come on, we’re running out of time.”

JP nodded and moved to the next man squirming on the floor, wrinkling his nose at the smells that accompanied the man’s overly drunken state.

“Hey! You!” The man shouted with a surprising lack of slurring, twisting to glare at Dlive and Entoan. “You two! You’re a bunch of traitors! You’re supposed to protect the street from criminals!”

Both bulls ignored him.

“You might as well be on strike for as much as you’re worth!”

JP casually put his foot on the man’s chest, swinging his bat thoughtfully.

“Hey, kid, whatcha doing?” The man blinked at him. “It’s past your bedtime.” He grinned. “Unless you were out having fun too.”

JP tilted his head, then brought his bat down on the man’s head.

_ Crack! _

The sound echoed around the warehouse, getting everyone’s attention. And so nobody missed it when JP toed the caved-in skull of the corpse on the floor.

“I’m protecting my family.” JP scowled at the corpse. “Which is more than I could do when I was a kid.” 

A hand slipped onto his shoulder, and he glanced up to see Molly looking at him.

“Are you okay?”

JP nodded, hefting his bat. “Which one’s next? Maybe they’ll have a hard enough skeleton to do more than dent the bat.”


	40. Returning Reverberations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Updated with every chapter.
> 
> Today's tune:  
> Autumn Leaves- Bill Evans, Scott LaFaro, Paul Motian

PJ bounced his leg softly, then forced himself to be still with a long breath.

“You ready, then?” Jordan asked, glancing from his spot in the driver’s seat.

PJ hesitated. Was he ready to bring Jordan to Freddy’s, expose him to this entirely secret part of his life where he wasn’t PJ Liguori the underboss but PJ the bassist?

No, but he was ready to get back to Freddy’s.

“Let’s get in to talk to Wilford before anyone else arrives.” PJ opened his door and got out, then led the way the remaining block and a half. 

To his credit, Jordan spoke not even once during the walk, and he largely even kept his head down. Whether this was because he was wary of being recognized so deep into Irish territory or because he was trying to ease PJ’s worries by not paying attention to the exact location of Freddy’s, PJ didn’t know.

Either way, PJ couldn’t help but hold his breath as he turned into the alley for the back entrance.

“Uh,” Jordan finally said, and PJ glanced back to see Jordan looking uneasily around the alley, “I’m not seeing any places with lights on.”

“What’s the point of a speakeasy if you can find it by just looking down the street?” PJ responded, walking up to the door.

Jordan responded with a shrug.

Despite his efforts to keep calm, PJ’s hand was shaking as he lightly rapped on the back door. 

The door cracked open, and a familiar pair of eyes stared at him. Then, before PJ could even think to give the password to allow himself in, the door was thrown open and Arin was grinning at him. 

“PJ!” Arin grabbed his arm and dragged him through the doorway before pulling him into a rough hug. 

PJ let out a rather undignified squeak at the sudden action, and Jordan tensed behind him.

Arin let go of him and put his hands on PJ’s shoulders. “It just hasn’t been the same without you here.”

PJ smiled, some of his unease melting away. “Things have been... rather difficult.” Things were still rather difficult (no he wouldn’t think about Sophie, he wouldn’t), and they were likely to  _ stay _ difficult with all the plans he and the godfather had for the Family, but as long as he could play at Freddy’s, he would manage.

The door, which had been swinging shut, paused in its motion.

Arin narrowed his eyes and pulled it open again to reveal Jordan standing there. “And who are you?”

PJ sighed. Already he was getting Jordan out of trouble—hopefully, that wasn’t a trend that would continue through the night. “He’s with me.”

“Oh, alright then.” Arin stepped aside, and Jordan darted inside.

Instantly, Jordan’s eyes were flicking around the room, taking in the new environment. He had yet to say anything, and PJ was glad for that, but he couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his friend’s mind.

“Go on, Wilford’ll want to see you.” Arin urged them on, returning to his place next to the door.

PJ nodded, pulling his coat off as he walked forward. As he pushed through the doors into the main room, he folded it the best he could before dropping it on stage.

“So this is where you’ve spent so much of your time.” Jordan murmured softly, looking around none-too-subtly. “What in the world drew you here the first time?”

PJ shrugged. “Curiosity more than anything.” He hopped up onto the stage and walked to the oh-so-familiar case waiting for him. If Jordan said anything, he missed it as he brushed his hands across the case, displacing a noticeable amount of dust with the action.

Quickly, he undid the latches and pulled out his bass. The familiar feel of his instrument under his hands, of strings under his fingertips, of his bow in his hand—he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Although, with being unused for so long, he definitely needed to make sure his bass was in playing condition.

“It’s been a long time since I saw you play,” Jordan said quietly.

PJ paused at that, then looked up and frowned. “It has, hasn’t it.” He honestly couldn’t recall when he’d last played around Jordan. It couldn’t have been after he started playing at Freddy’s—he hadn’t played anywhere else since then. “I suppose that’s because I leave my bass here.” Plus, he never had time for fun anymore, so he wouldn't have been able to play it if he'd wanted to.

“I thought you broke it.” Jordan admitted.

Ah. He’d spoken with the godfather, then, after PJ had been forced to lie and say it had broken.

“That would be a pity.” PJ shook his head.

“Excuse me,” came a blissfully familiar drawl, “but you can't just go about touching things. That beautiful thing belongs to a very skilled musician.”

PJ grinned at Mark, already dressed in his Wilford suit.

“Eh, he's been gone so long he's probably dead. Let him have his fun.” Jack shrugged, stepping out from behind Mark.

“What was his name again?” Mark mused. “Pajamas?”

“Definitely.”

PJ shook his head with a chuckle. “Some things never change.” Oh, if he could play at Freddy's for as long as it was open, that would be fantastic.

Though the godfather would die eventually and then—no. He wasn't going to think about that either.

“I'm glad you think so.” Mark dropped the accent, frowning slightly. (Jack, on the other hand, seemed to be studying Jordan.) “You well enough to be here?”

Despite the words, PJ heard the real questions Mark was asking. Was he getting proper amounts of sleep each night? Technically no, but he hadn't ever since the godfather had become bedridden. But he was getting at least  _ some _ sleep, even if Sophie and what-could-have-beens still haunted his dreams.

Was he able to leave his family from the emergency that had originally called him away? Well, he spent hours each day with Luna while Amanda helped Matthias accustom himself to only having one leg, hours he spent pondering how to help the Family and their future, but he wasn't needed at night for that. Besides, any more planning for that and he might go insane.

Had his heart healed from the breakup? No, not by a long shot, but music and people he loved wouldn't hurt it.

Was he prepared to see Wade and Molly at the speakeasy and know he almost got them killed, that he did try to get them killed, and that they were none the wiser and welcomed him anyway? Absolutely not.

For that matter, was he prepared to see Sophie in the audience and have his heart break all over again? As if.

But was he ready to feel the music quivering in the air, and his bass under his hands, and to feel like he was following one of his dreams?

A thousand times yes.

“I couldn't stay away any longer.” PJ sighed. “I'll... I'll be fine.”

Mark gave him a concerned look. “If you need to take more time off-”

PJ gave a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“I'm keeping an eye on you.” Mark said slowly. “Don't want you pushing yourself too far.”

“At least I've never collapsed.” PJ shook his head.

Mark made an offended face. “See if I give you a drink at all.”

PJ shrugged. The music, the night, that would be enough for him.

Mark turned to Jordan (Jack had gone chasing after Chica). “Welcome to Freddy's. I'm Wilford, owner of this joint.”

Jordan blinked, but nodded. “Hi.”

“Whenever you’re ready, let me know what you want to drink.” Mark gave a decided grin.

“Oh, I won’t be having anything stronger than water.” Jordan said simply.

PJ rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Jordan folded his arms.

PJ made a face and shook his head. Logically, he knew why Jordan wouldn’t be having anything strong to drink, but he kind of wanted to not have to worry about Jordan interrupting him and checking on him throughout the night.

“Oh? What’s going on here?” Mark asked, looking between Jordan and PJ.

“My uncle decided I needed a bodyguard.” PJ didn’t dare meet Mark’s eyes. “I couldn’t convince him to leave me alone long enough to lose him.”

“As if that’s going to happen.” Jordan shook his head.

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Ah. I see.” He turned back to Jordan. “Here, let’s step to the side. I’m sure you’ll have a lot of concerns about his safety, and I have a few things I need to make sure you understand myself.”

Jordan nodded, allowing Mark to pull him to the side.

PJ returned his attention to tuning his bass, tension leaving him with every bit of work.

This came to a crashing stop when a rather energetic bundle of golden fur crashed into him, barking and yapping as Jack tried desperately to catch her.

Across the room, Jordan noticeably frowned, but PJ just reached down and scratched Chica on the head. “You missed me too, I see.” He smiled faintly at her. “Well, I’m back now. I’m not planning on missing any more nights, either.”

Chica yapped and licked his hand.

PJ chuckled, then nudged her with his foot. “I’ve got to get back to this, but I’ll pet you more later.”

Chica yapped again and darted off the stage to Mark’s feet.

“She didn’t hurt your bass or anything, right?” Jack asked, dropping into his regular drumming seat. 

PJ shook his head. “Not at all.”

Jack didn’t respond, and PJ hesitantly looked up, wondering if something was wrong.

Instead, he found Jack grinning at him widely.

“I’ve never been so happy to see you playing that oversized fish of yours.” He gestured to PJ’s bass.

PJ just gave him an even look, though he could feel the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “Aww, you missed me.”

Jack crossed his arms. “What? No.” He made a dismissive gesture, though his eyes were still twinkling. “I’d just gotten used to how things sounded without a fish flopping all over the stage, gasping for air because it couldn’t keep up.”

PJ laughed. “Slow down tonight, alright? I’m out of practice.”

“Nope.” Jack shook his head. “One of us has to play well.”

PJ laughed again, even though there was nothing particularly funny about what Jack had said. 

Being in a comfortable environment was doing wonders for him. It had been over a month since he’d laughed this much—and he wasn’t even laughing all that much.

“PJ!”

PJ barely had time to turn and look before JP was standing in front of him, grinning widely.

“Why hello, young JPar.” PJ’s smile was a little forced. If JP was here, then that meant Wade and Molly were here, and he wasn’t sure he could face them just yet.

“It’s been so boring without you around.” JP bounced on his toes slightly. “People haven’t been getting us mixed up nearly enough.”

“I’m glad I’m able to help with that.” PJ raised an eyebrow.

JP grinned and bounded off, and PJ returned to his work.

Hopefully Wade and Molly weren’t going to walk up to him. Every second he got to prepare for that, the better.

As if knowing PJ was uneasy, Jack reached over and put his hand on his shoulder.

PJ looked up.

“You doing okay there?” Jack asked simply, eyes full of sincere concern. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I’m fine.” PJ couldn’t bring himself to look Jack in the eye as he spoke.

“Peej.” Jack let out a sigh. “Do you need a break? Wilford’s not going to protest at all.”

“No, I can keep going.” PJ returned his gaze to his bass.

Jack’s fingers tapped on his knee, but PJ didn’t glance up high enough to see what Jack’s face was doing.

“Are you sure?”

PJ paused in his tuning, only now looking up to meet Jack’s eyes. “It wouldn’t do for me to let everyone down on my first night back, now would it.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Careful now. You’ve still got things going on, let’s not push you too far. Nobody wants you getting sick.”

PJ forced a smile, though Jack looked as unconvinced as PJ felt by it. “I’ll be careful.”

Jack nodded, his gaze flicking to the other side of PJ.

PJ turned to see Wade and Molly standing there and jumped. Had he been playing a note, it would have gone sour as the fingers on his left hand did all sorts of things they weren’t supposed to.

“Molly! Wade! It’s been a while.” PJ smiled at them, hoping they wouldn’t notice how strained it was.

Settling into a seat across the room, Jordan definitely looked over at the names.

“We were getting worried there.” Wade said, clapping a hand on PJ’s shoulder hard enough to make him grunt. “You alright now?”

“Alright enough.” PJ rubbed his shoulder with a grimace.

Molly put her hand on Wade’s shoulder. “Mark told us what happened with Sophie. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about seeing her around for a bit--she hasn’t come back here since the couples’ night either.”

PJ blinked, concern washing over him. Was Sophie alright? Had something happened to her? Even worse, had someone found out about her and done something to her to try and get at him? He certainly had enough enemies for that.

“I’ve seen her out and about,” Molly continued, “so I know she’s still around, but I haven’t gone up to her and asked her anything. That’s your business, not mine.”

PJ rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks for letting me know, I guess. It’s... it’s complicated.”

“These kinds of things usually are.” Molly smiled, then walked over to her regular table.

“If you want a drink and a talk, I’ll be here all night.” Wade grinned at him and walked to join her.

PJ took a deep breath and forced his hands to be still. Molly arriving meant the doors were just about to open.

It was time to play the night away.


	41. "Mobster Mir to be Moved"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) Updated with every chapter.
> 
> Today's tune:  
> Don’t Explain- Dexter Gordon

_ Thursday, November 8, 1923 _

_ Charles Korol Mir, head of the Russian mob, is scheduled to be moved from the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary to Charlestown State Prison by the end of this week.  _

_ Many are speculating on how this will affect Mir’s status, especially as his imprisonment as a whole is still being challenged on several fronts. Some are adamant nothing will change, but others are much more worried this action spells nothing but trouble. _

_ This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil. _

_ Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column! _

“Good afternoon, detectives.” Phil glanced up from fiddling with a camera as MatPat and Gar walked up to him and Dan.

“Good afternoon,” MatPat said simply. “Can we have a word?”

Phil set the camera down on the desk next to him, and Dan looked up from flipping through notes.

“Certainly,” said Phil and “I suppose,” said Dan.

It had taken the two detectives most of the day to hunt down the reporters. Just as MatPat and Gar had arrived at one burnt-out shell of a building, the reporters had moved on to the next. Neither of them were quite sure what story Dan and Phil were following, or if it was one single story or many stories, but it had certainly made them move around a lot.

And now, finally, they’d caught up to them: in the cramped room they called their office at the news station.

It was rather interesting that they had an office, as Gar didn’t think most reporters did. Though, with the warning they’d received from one of the men on the floor to be careful around Dan, he had a feeling he knew why.

“Since you run around so much and see and hear so much, we were wondering if you’d heard anything about a large speakeasy in South Boston.”

“There’s a lot of rumors about speakeasies in South Boston,” Dan replied as his gaze lingered on the faint remnants of cuts on MatPat’s face, “so you’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

Phil frowned at Dan, but it seemed to be more of a frown of concern than one of upset.

“It would be run by Madame Foxglove.” MatPat said it oh-so-casually.

Dan dropped his notebook on the desk with enough force to send the camera off the edge. Phil caught it before it hit the ground and frowned at Dan again. 

“We’ve heard of a place like that, yeah; but we’d mostly brushed it off as rumors,” Phil explained, setting the camera back onto the table. “We get a lot of rumors.”

“Do you have any idea where it might be located?” MatPat asked.

MatPat continued to ask questions, getting vague responses and not much else. Gar, however, was watching Dan. 

Dan seemed upset about something. He’d first tensed up at MatPat’s mostly healed cuts, and his obvious discomfort only continued to grow as the conversation continued.

Gar honestly didn’t know much about the two reporters. He’d looked into their records one day (mostly out of boredom) and they had said a lot about their past—and not much of anything about their current lives. 

Phil’s didn’t have much to note, except that he was legally Dan’s caretaker. Dan, however, had quite a bit more: he’d fought in the Great War, on a bomb defusal squad. A bit more investigation into that had revealed he’d outlived quite a few of his squadmates. It was quite probably why Phil was his caretaker.

“No, not really,” Phil was saying, apparently answering MatPat’s latest question, “which I imagine doesn’t help you very much.”

“You’ve provided more than we had before,” MatPat assured.

Phil nodded, then glanced at Dan again and frowned a third time. “If you’ll excuse us, detectives, I need to get Dan home.”

MatPat dipped his head. “Of course. We’ll get out of your way.”

The two slipped out of the office as Dan and Phil gathered up their coats, but waited until they were safely on their way back to the precinct before they talked.

“Phil seemed honest,” MatPat mused, “but I got the feeling he knew more than he was saying.” He glanced at Gar. “Did Dan reveal anything?”

Gar shook his head. “He wasn’t comfortable with us there, but he was tense when we walked in the room. Whatever was bothering him, it wasn’t just our questions.”

MatPat nodded briefly. “So that told us Madame Foxglove is indeed running a speakeasy, and it’s in South Boston. We know Jason knew where it was, but he left no indications of it in his journal.”

Gar tilted his head. “We know Jason and Madame Foxglove were connected through Wade, but we don’t know what kind of relationship the two had.”

“Probably not an easy one.” MatPat paused, sadness crossing his face. “I still have no idea who killed Jason, though.” He sighed.

Gar frowned. “I don’t suppose his body was autopsied for signs of foul play?”

MatPat made a face, then glanced around. They were on a relatively busy street, but nobody seemed to be paying them any attention at all. “It wasn’t supposed to be, but... I asked Dyke to do one anyway.”

Gar blinked. “Rob Dyke?”

MatPat nodded.

Gar raised an eyebrow. Rob Dyke was one of the newer medical examiners at Mass. General, but he had proven himself to be proficient and was the one most often called on for forensic autopsies. “Doesn’t he have to have either family permission, or an order from the precinct?”

MatPat shrugged. “That was the problem. He said he’d do what he could, but... that was hours after I’d gotten the news about Jason’s death. It’s been a full ten months by now, and I haven’t heard back. I don’t think he found anything.”

Gar gave MatPat a comforting pat on the shoulder.

MatPat sighed. “If only I knew what killed him.” He frowned. “Let’s go over our notes again when we get back to the office.”

Gar nodded. “Alright.”

MatPat seemed distracted the entire time they went over their notes, and Gar didn’t point out they had a lot less conclusive evidence than could be actually useful. MatPat went completely silent at one point, staring at Jason’s journal in his hands.

“Matthew?” Gar asked hesitantly. “You doing okay?”

MatPat jumped slightly, then nodded. “Oh… yeah. I’m just...” He let out a long breath and set Jason’s journal on his desk. “How’s your rib holding up?”

Gar brushed his side, where his fractured rib twinged. “It’s alright.” He frowned. “What brought that up?”

MatPat shrugged slightly. “I just... I was thinking over Halloween night again.” 

Gar’s frown deepened. “Ah.” Hopefully this wasn’t going to go where he thought it was.

MatPat’s fingers drummed on his desk for a minute. Then: “Why’d you defy orders?”

Gar silently swore. “I told you I wasn’t going to stay back while you got in the fight.”

MatPat swallowed. “And I trusted you to stay out of it, despite that.”

Gar directed his frown at the floor. 

MatPat stared at Gar for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. 

“What happens when I can’t trust you anymore?” 

The disappointment, the hesitant uncertainty, and the hurt in his partner’s voice made Gar wince. But what really cut the deepest, what really hurt the most, was his words. 

Gar swallowed. Then swallowed again. 

“You can trust me,” he replied, looking up at MatPat pleadingly. “Please… I know I went against direct orders… but I saved-” 

“The end should  _ never _ justify the means,” MatPat snapped, standing up off his desk. “It turned out for the better—this time. What happens the next time, hmm? The next time you decide to ignore me, and take matters into your own hands?” He stopped, and seemed to gather himself. Letting out a breath he continued, his voice uncomfortably calm.

“Please, Gar. I want to trust you. And I hoped you trusted me enough to listen to me, but I guess I was wrong. I just-“ 

MatPat turned away, but not before Gar caught a glimpse of tears in his partner’s eyes. “I don’t want to lose another partner, okay?” 

MatPat’s back was still turned, but his voice held an underlying waver that made something in Gar’s chest physically hurt—and it had nothing to do with his fractured rib. Tears were starting to prick at his own eyes, now, no matter how hard he fought against them. 

“I’m sorry.” He was too quiet. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Please, I’m so sorry. I didn’t look at it that way, I didn’t know- I didn’t think-“ 

“Exactly. You didn’t think. You’re the trainee, Gar; my job is to train you. Your job is to listen to me. Our job is to share a mutual trust, and I don’t know if it was purposeful or out of pure idiocy, but you fractured that trust. It had better not happen again. I don’t want what we have to break.” 

Gar was staring down at the ground, eyes shut tight against the tears. He didn’t notice MatPat leave their office until he heard the door close.

Gar wasn't quite sure how long he sat there, tears silently running down his cheeks. There was so much he wished he could tell MatPat, so much he was keeping secret, so many things MatPat didn't even know about. So many things making Gar undeserving of whatever trust MatPat put in him.

Gar wiped his face with his sleeve, wishing he hadn't left Dante with his dad. He could have used corgi cuddles.

But it was too cold and too dangerous for Dante right now, so he'd stayed behind.

Gar slowly stood, pulling his coat on. It was unlikely MatPat was going to want them to do anything more today after that spat, and he wanted some familiarity around him in case a confrontation happened when he exited the room.

That done, Gar left the office and quietly closed the door behind him. MatPat could lock it when he was ready to go.

On the far side of the main room, Bob and MatPat were talking quietly. MatPat still seemed distressed. It would probably be best to avoid him for a little longer.

Wait.

If Bob was here, that meant Drake was around as well.

As if waiting for that very thought, an arm reached around his throat and pulled him into a chokehold. It was tight against his airway—he couldn’t breathe. Already, his vision was darkening at the edges.

The cold muzzle of a gun pressed up against his skull, and Drake shouted, “He's the one, he's the Faceless spy!”

MatPat's head jerked up at the words, and he couldn't help but stare across the room to see what Drake was doing. 

Then he realized Gar's predicament, and alarm shot through him.

“What are you doing, let go of him!” MatPat shouted back, even as Gar's struggles started to weaken. “He can't breathe!”

“You're going to kill him!” Patrck darted to the wall, his hand resting on the grip of his pistol. The other officers in the main room all stood. Some looked to MatPat for guidance; one darted into the chief’s office.

“Stay back!” Drake warned, wrenching Gar forward to cover himself.

Patrck pulled out his gun, and MatPat followed suit. He couldn't get close enough to rescue Gar, and he couldn't shoot Drake without risking Gar’s life.

And then Gar twisted, and Drake yelled. A gunshot went off, and Gar was falling, leaving Drake vulnerable.

MatPat took the shot.

Drake crumpled on top of Gar, blood already soaking his chest.

Gar.

Gar, who was too still on the ground, too unresponsive to Drake's body slumping down on his own. Raw panic surged through MatPat once again, and only years of habit kept him from dropping his gun there and then.   
  
MatPat darted over to Gar, pushing Drake's body off his partner, fingers feeling for a pulse.   
  
He couldn't lose another partner. Not so soon. Not like this.   
  
There. There was a pulse. And he was breathing, if raggedly.   
  
Gar's eyes slowly drifted open, and MatPat just about sobbed with relief.   
  
Gar opened his mouth, looking like he was going to speak, but instead grimaced and put a hand to his throat.   
  
"No, don't push yourself." MatPat gripped his shoulder. "Don't move. You're not getting up until someone takes a look at you."

Gar gave te tiniest of nods, dropping his hand on his chest.

MatPat sat in silence next to Gar until they made him move, and then he was left staring at Drake's body.

He'd just killed someone to protect Gar.

He frowned. There were two bullet wounds on Drake's body—one in the chest, from MatPat; and one in the shoulder. Who had done that? Patrck?

Then one of the other detectives was talking to him, and he turned his attention to answering the incoming slew of questions—but not before glancing around to see Gar sat in a chair with a blanket over him, a doctor speaking with him.

As the doctor left, Gar slumped more in the chair. Never had he been more alert and exhausted at the same time.

A familiar set of footsteps sounded, and Gar glanced up to see his father standing there.

“The chief told me what happened,” came the grim statement. “I'm here to take you home.”

Gar let out a shuddery breath and looked over at Drake's body once more. That wasn't how things were supposed to have gone.

“Did I fail?” His voice was raspy and quiet. Talking hurt, and he couldn't help but put a hand to his throat as he spoke.

His only answer was a squeeze on the shoulder and a, “We’ll talk about it later, Gar.”


	42. Rippling Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We update it with every new chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:
> 
> I Waited For You - Dizzy Gillespie  
> I'll Wait and Pray - John Coltrane

“Neither of you are to even come to the precinct until we’ve finished investigating this incident with Henning.” The chief looked at both MatPat and Gar, getting a nod from both of them. “I don’t expect it’ll take longer than a week, but it could last a bit longer than that.” He tapped his fingers on his desk, glancing out at the main floor. 

All the blood had been scrubbed off the floor, and Drake’s body removed—it was the next morning, after all—but the weight of the whole situation still hung heavily in the air.

“Detective Bluemoon, you wouldn’t have been allowed back to work for about that long anyway, since we don’t want to aggravate any hidden complications from what happened. Take this time and rest, so you can come back swinging.”

Gar nodded again. He’d barely said anything, but considering the bruises that showed whenever his coat collar shifted too much, that wasn’t really surprising.

“Detective Patrick, I have no idea what you do in your spare time, but whatever it is, do some of that.” The chief sat back in his chair. “That’s all.”

The two detectives stood and left the office, then after collecting their coats headed outside. If they gave the area where Drake had died a large berth, nobody said a thing about it.

Once outside, Gar simply raised a hand in a wave and walked off, presumably returning home.

MatPat let out a long breath, watching his partner walk away for a minute, then turned and walked his own direction.

He’d come so close to losing another partner. He’d been so close he didn’t even want to think about it.

He’d come so close he’d had to kill a coworker to keep Gar alive. Granted, it had been a coworker who was convinced Gar was an undercover spy for an imaginary crime syndicate, but still.

He took a deep breath as snow crunched underfoot, then paused and frowned. He’d been so busy thinking, so busy reliving the moments just before Drake’s death, that he wasn’t even sure where he was.

MatPat lifted his head and blinked.

He was in the cemetery where Jason was buried.

Well, he was here. Might as well talk to the guy. As MatPat approached the familiar tombstone, he made a face. 

“What would you have done?”

He knew the answer to that. Jason would have shot Drake in a heartbeat.

MatPat smiled faintly. “I’m glad I made the right call, then.” He sighed, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. He buried his nose in his coat collar, instantly fogging up his glasses. He sighed, and pulled his nose out of the warmth.

“I didn’t mean to come by here, you know,” he began, “and I’m not sure what to say, now that I’m here.” He chuckled. It was a small sound in the rather vast open space.

“I usually have a reason or a plan. For everything, I suppose, not just these visits. You and Gar are alike in that… you don’t always need these plans. I learned to live with it for you, but Gar doesn’t...” MatPat’s mind trailed to his outburst shortly before the Drake incident. “Gar didn’t deserve me yelling at him like that. He did the best he could Halloween night. Handled it a lot like you would have.”

Jason would have chewed him out for telling Gar to stay out of it, too. He would have pointed out that Gar had been handling himself better than MatPat had that night; that he’d walked away with only a bruised rib, while MatPat had cuts and welts galore.

“I guess... every time I see a bit of you in him, I get scared of losing him, almost like I’d be losing you all over again.” MatPat shook his head. “It’s silly, I know, but... you were my best friend—outside of Stephanie, of course. If you could have met him, you two would have gotten along like a house on fire.”

MatPat nudged the snow with his toes, crunching it underfoot. “I feel a bit guilty, actually.” He sighed. “I’m so worried something’s going to happen to him, that I’m almost hindering him.” He could practically feel Jason giving him that unimpressed look. “I know, I know, but...” 

Once again, the scene from the night before played over in his mind—their fight, then going to talk to Bob, then Drake’s shout and realizing what was going on.

“I almost lost him last night. And it scared me. I don’t want to lose him, I don’t. He’s already agreed to stay my partner once his rookie year is up, and he’s almost halfway through that.”

The only response was the soft chirp of an unseen bird. For a split second, an unbidden image of Jason as a chicken rose to MatPat’s mind, and he couldn’t help it. He laughed. Oh, what cruel beauty that would be—cruel for Jason, beauty for everyone else.

Just as quickly as it came, the humor dissipated, leaving MatPat staring at Jason’s grave. 

To any onlooker, he would have looked like anyone paying his respects. Any random onlooker wouldn’t have seen his shoulders set firmly and his posture straighten.

“I’m not going to lose him,” MatPat said firmly. “I’m not going to lose him to a criminal, I’m not going to lose him to a stupid argument.” 

He placed a hand on Jason’s gravestone, then smiled. “Thanks for listening, old friend.”

And as he left the cemetery, he didn’t even once think about the strange circumstances of Jason’s death.

\-----

“It’s been almost a year.”

Molly looked up at Wade’s voice, only to see him leaning in the doorframe holding one of his old war letters in his hands. “A year for what?”

“Since Jason died.”

Molly frowned. “It has, hasn’t it.” She tapped her fingers on her book. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Wade shrugged and sat next to her on the couch, turning the letter over in his hands. “I mean, I just... I wasn’t expecting him to die so suddenly. The guy had been doing just fine.” He sighed. “Maybe if you’d come that night, you would have noticed something I didn’t.”

Molly put a comforting hand on his arm. She’d stayed home from Freddy’s that night dealing with Orchid business, but Wade and Jason had gone on alone. Jason certainly had seemed fine shortly before his death, though. “Do you think someone did something to him?”

Wade shrugged. “I mean, who could have? Nobody weird approached us at Freddy’s, and he only had the one drink like he normally did. I assumed he was sick and didn’t know it with how disoriented he was when he left, but I was so concerned with getting back to you to make sure you were okay...” Wade shook his head. “I didn’t even think to check up on him.”

“Do you think the alcohol was bad?”

Wade shook his head. “Mark doesn’t serve anything but the best—you know that; we’re the ones who get it to him. He certainly wouldn’t be careless enough to give someone a drink of it, even if he did have it.”

Molly frowned. “If I’d known his death was so suspicious when it went down, I could have had Dlive investigate for us.”

“None of us knew.” Wade flopped backwards. “How could we have? It was nothing we hadn’t done before. He even ordered the same drink he always did.” He sighed. “I dunno. Something wasn’t right, and if I’d paid attention to it... he might still be alive.” 

“Maybe he was offed by one of the other mobs.” Molly shrugged. “More likely he was sick and didn’t know it, and that’s what killed him.”

Wade made a face. “I’m honestly not so sure about that. He didn’t have any problems until he was leaving. If someone did something to him, it had to have been something with his drink. It’s the only option.”

Molly frowned at that. "Do you think Mark saw anything?"

Wade shook his head. "It was a busy night. He was barely keeping up with orders."

Molly shrugged. "I mean, it's worth asking him about, isn't it? Even if he didn't see anything, maybe Amy or Ethan did. Or Kathryn, or Tyler."

Wade took a deep breath, then nodded. "You're right. I'll ask all of them tonight when we head over."

\-----

Mark hmm-ed at Wade's question, though the mention of the dead detective made him more than a little uneasy. "I didn't see anything go down, but I couldn't see everything going on at once, either. It's not out of the question for someone to have slipped something into his drink, if they knew exactly what they were doing. But things were so busy, and I don't know who could have done that." He bent down under the bar and pulled out some glasses, getting them ready for the night. "You might try one of the others, though; maybe they saw something."

"Saw what?" Felix's voice interrupted as he walked up to them, with Cry just a step behind.

"If anyone slipped something into Jason's drink." Wade explained. 

Felix just looked at Wade for a moment, and Mark went for more glasses. 

"I know you were friends," Felix's voice floated down to Mark's head, "but he's been dead almost a year. Isn't it a bit late for this sort of thing?"

"It's too late to catch whoever did it, probably, but I still want to know if something did happen." Wade sighed.

Mark scooped the last of the glasses into his arms and stood.

Felix frowned slightly. "Well, if something did happen, it probably wasn't an accident. Staff here are far too professional to let something like that just happen."

Mark gave a fake gasp. "Are you insinuating one of my staff poisoned Detective Parker, Kjellberg?"

Felix rolled his eyes. "Frankly, Wilford, none of your staff are competent enough at that sort of thing. None of them know poisons." He paused and turned to Wade. "Are you sure Molly didn't just kill him?"

"She stayed home that day. Besides, she promised she'd warn me if it ever got to the point where she needed to kill him."

Felix shrugged. "Fair enough."

Mark quietly polished the glasses as he watched the exchange go down, then paused and furrowed his brow. "We had a second Freddy's waiter back then—which reminds me, I need to find another one so I don't work Ethan to death—and he worked that night." He held up a hand as Wade went to speak. "He turned up dead in the streets less than a week later; you can't ask him anything. But Ethan was training him, so maybe he noticed something."

Wade nodded and walked off.

Felix and Cry were on their way out by the time Mark found the time to head to Wade and Molly's table and ask if he'd learned anything.

Wade shook his head. “Ethan didn’t know anything.”

Mark frowned. He knew Wade was right, Jason’s death did happen very suddenly, and something had probably happened. 

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Mark turned to see Dan and Phil standing there.

“Hello, gentlemen,” he drawled in his Wilford voice, “what’s it to be tonight?”

Then he paused. Both of them looked incredibly serious.

“Detectives Patrick and Bluemoon asked us if we knew anything about a speakeasy run by Madame Foxglove in South Boston,” Dan said grimly.

“We managed to get away without saying much, but we did have to admit to rumors.” Phil rubbed the back of his neck.

“We said we didn’t know where it was, but...” Dan shook his head. “They’re getting close, Wilford. They’re getting close.”

Mark swallowed, and just for a moment, he wondered if MatPat would even be looking for Freddy’s if Jason hadn’t died to something, or someone, in its walls.

\-----

“It was lovely as always,” Felix was telling Marzia. “One of these days, you really should come with me.”

“I’m fine staying here,” Marzia assured. “Really.”

Cry gave Edgar a little scritch as he sat on the couch and listened to this discussion for yet another time. First was this; then Felix would be trying to figure out why Marzia wouldn’t come (not pressuring her to come, just wanting to know why) and Marzia refusing to answer. Their relationship was never in any danger from this, but it did get rather repetitive on Cry’s part.

Finally, though, Felix made his way to bed. Marzia went to follow, then paused and looked at Cry.

“You don’t usually stay downstairs this long. Is something wrong?”

“People were asking about Detective Parker’s death.” Cry gently shooed Edgar off of his lap and stood.

Marzia tensed. “What were they saying?”

“They’re suspicious about the circumstances, saying it was too sudden to have been natural, but nobody had any ideas as to what happened.”

Marzia bit the inside of her lip. “Did you-”

“I didn’t say anything at all about it. Not even to Felix.”

Marzia slumped slightly. “Thank you.” She turned to leave the room again, then paused and looked back. “I think I’ll burn that letter tomorrow morning. It would be bad if it got in the wrong hands.”

Cry dipped his head. “It would be. For both of us.”

Marzia nodded, then finally left the room.

Cry stood there a minute longer, then nodded to himself. He wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted by what had happened almost a year ago. That simply didn’t matter anymore. What was done was done.

He just hoped it never had to be done again.


	43. Housebreak, Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We update it with every new chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:  
> Dance Cadaverous- Wayne Shorter

_ Thursday, November 15, 1923; Molly’s journal _

_ Detective Matthew Patrick has become all too much of a nuisance. Thanks to the warning the Boston Bumblers gave Wilford, I’ve been able to decide what to do about that detective. I’m not very worried about his rookie partner, now knowing what I do, but Detective Patrick is a force to be reckoned with. _

_ Well, it’s time he gets his own reckoning. _

_ I need to stop him from finding Freddy’s. I don’t have any interest in angering the Faceless by doing something to Det. Bluemoon, but that’s not my only option. Dlive and Entoan tell me Det. Patrick speaks of his wife quite often, and that he clearly adores her. _

_ I’m reluctant to bring her into this, but I’m much more concerned about what would happen if the detectives found Freddy’s. _

It was strange to wake to the sensation of an empty bed next to him.

MatPat blinked, then rolled and grabbed his eyeglasses from the bedside table. After they were on, a brief glance proved that Stephanie had gotten up before him—not terribly unusual—and that Skip, their cat, had also gone. And that was notably more unusual.

He glanced around the room. No signs of a struggle, not that he’d been expecting any. Well, that meant there was only one thing to do.

Time to investigate.

He rolled out of bed, then instantly wished he hadn’t. The air outside his blankets was considerably colder than the air under them.

Bundling himself in his robe and slippers for extra warmth, MatPat ventured out of his room. Nothing seemed out of place, but there was still no signs of Skip. Or his wife, for that matter.

There was, however, soft music playing from the radio in the hall. For some reason, he couldn’t help but imagine a radio program of some kind being hosted by those two reporters. Maybe because they’d done such a good job at the commemoration.

MatPat paused and blinked. Had it really been two months since the commemoration event? How time flew.

And he and Gar had yet to track down Madame Foxglove’s speakeasy.

They were close, though not nearly as close as they could have been if they hadn’t been forced to not work this past week. Granted, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to bring himself to make Gar work anyway, given that he had a fractured rib, and he’d almost been choked to death, and that he’d almost died.

MatPat made a note to check in on Gar later that day. It had been a bit since they’d spoken. He’d wanted to give Gar completely uninterrupted time to rest, and he didn’t want to intrude on any visitors the Bluemoon family might have had during that time.

It had been a week now, though, so he was probably good to check on him.

“Good morning!” Steph’s arms wrapped around him from behind.

“Good morning.” MatPat glanced over his shoulder to see her, and smiled despite himself.

“So, what do you want to do for your birthday?”

MatPat blinked, then paused. Was it really the 15th? It was, it was indeed.

“Well, I want to spend most of it with you, but I need to check up on Gar. I haven’t heard from him at all this past week.”

“He’s probably fine,” Steph assured, “since you said he was walking home by himself after the chief talked to you two, but we can definitely do that.”

“We’ll do that around noon, if that’s alright.” MatPat smiled at her. “I don’t want to wake him if he’s resting.”

“That’ll give us time for breakfast and a book.” She grinned at him.

“That sounds lovely.”

\-----

The air was crisp and cold, the air tinged with salt, and leaves and snow crunched delightfully underfoot as MatPat and Steph walked to Gar’s apartment. 

“What should I expect?” Steph asked, pulling her red scarf tighter around her. Out of habit more than anything, MatPat touched his green one. “I don’t know much about Gar--does he live alone? With family? I know his father is in the city, but that doesn’t mean they live together.”

“He and his father live together.” MatPat carefully ducked under a low-hanging branch, turning slightly to avoid another pedestrian. “Also, Dante. He has a sister, but she doesn’t live here.” It was probably best to not mention his sister had been escorted from the city by Madame Foxglove.

“What about his mother?”

MatPat shrugged. “He hasn’t mentioned her, and I haven’t asked.”

Steph frowned. “Think she died?”

He thought about that for a minute, then shook his head. “I think Gar would have said something if that were the case. I get the feeling it’s not the happiest situation, though.”

Steph nodded. “I won’t ask, then.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded cheerfully, and the conversation melted into more familiar topics.

As they rounded the final corner, Steph gasped slightly. “He lives here?”

MatPat nodded.

“How?”

“Got lucky, I guess.”

The apartment buildings in question were ones Steph had tried to get into when they’d first moved to Boston (well, she’d moved alone, he’d still been off cracking codes in the war), but they’d proved impossible to get into. They’d waited for months for news of a vacancy they could take before finally finding where they lived now and giving up.

She shook her head. “Did they have to live somewhere else in the meantime?”

“He didn’t mention a wait period at all.”

She gasped. “What luck.”

“They could have gone through one,” MatPat pointed out as they pushed their way through the main entry doors, “it’s not exactly something you think about unless you’re trying to get someone else to live here.”

“Fair point.”

While it wasn’t too difficult to get where Gar lived (down the hall), MatPat couldn’t help but notice a few things about the building. It was well-kept, but oddly so for an older building. No creaky floors or uneven carpets, nothing at all.

Good maintenance.

It was only a few more doors before MatPat pulled them to a stop in front of the Bluemoon household door. He knocked quickly, quietly, and then gave Steph a smile as she pulled his hand into hers. 

The door was silent for a bit, and MatPat disengaged his hand to knock again. This time, a rather large crash and muffled cursing sounded through the door.

Steph stifled a laugh, and MatPat shook his head. Gar had better not have fallen on something coming to answer the door.

The door cracked open, revealing a slightly disheveled looking Gar.

“Oh!” Gar blinked, opening the door a bit more and stepping into the opening. MatPat couldn’t see much behind Gar, but he did see a bookshelf with half its books on the floor and Dante sniffing around curiously. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“I thought I’d come check on you, see how you were doing.” MatPat smiled. “Glad to hear you talking again.”

Gar touched his throat lightly. “Yeah, my throat finally stopped hurting enough a couple of days ago to start talking again.”

“You doing okay?”

Gar shrugged. “I mean, that wasn’t an ideal situation at all, but we both survived, so I guess that’s good?” He frowned. “I wish it hadn’t gone that way, though.”

MatPat sighed. “I agree. Drake made his choice, though, and I wasn’t going to just... lose you like that.”

“He’s your second dad,” Steph fake-whispered, putting a hand to her mouth to make the fakery of it all the more obvious, “and I don’t know what that makes me, maybe your second mom or something, that’s up to you.”

Gar laughed softly. “I’m touched by the concern.” He smiled at both of them, then glanced over his shoulder back into the room. MatPat couldn’t help but follow his gaze. The floor in front of the bookcase was just plain wood, and it seemed a bit scratched. It was largely covered by books, but it could have been scratched in an arc shape?

That was peculiar.

A bork came from inside the apartment.

“Dante, hush.” Gar shifted his weight, blocking Dante from getting closer with his feet. “You know them.”

Dante borked again, then returned to sniffing at the books.

Gar gave an uneasy smile, then glanced over his shoulder again. “Look, I kind of tripped into the bookcase and I need to pick up the books before dad gets back, but otherwise I’d stay and talk.” He paused, then brightened. “Oh! I wasn’t expecting you to stop by today, but when we get back to work I’ll have a present ready for you.”

“You don’t need to,” MatPat started, only to have Gar shake his head.

“No, I do. You’ve been so kind to me about birthdays it’s only fair I do the same to you now that yours has come around.”

MatPat smiled. “Thank you.”

Gar grinned. “Of course.”

MatPat paused, then turned to Steph. “Can you give us a minute? I need to talk to Gar alone.”

She nodded and walked down the hall, clearly headed for one of the seasonal wreaths hanging on a door.

“Oh?” Gar blinked. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to apologize.” MatPat sighed. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. It was uncalled for. You did just fine Halloween night. It certainly wasn’t what I was expecting, and I still panic whenever I think of you being put in unnecessary danger, but...” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way.”

“I defied direct orders.” Gar frowned slightly. “Why wouldn’t you react like that?”

“Because I’m more than your trainer,” MatPat blinked in surprise, “I’m your partner in crime--rather, your partner against crime. I can’t expect you to not act, or to leave it all to me. We’re in this together. We’ve got to stand up for each other, and you did just that. Honestly, Patrck and I might have died if you hadn’t done that.”

“I see what you’re saying, but it was still a direct violation of orders.” Gar shrugged. “And it was my fault.”

MatPat put a hand on Gar’s shoulder. “No. It’s on me too.”

He pulled back and gave Gar one last look-over. “I’m sure you’ve been getting plenty of rest as it is, but just be ready, okay? We should be free to go back to work at any point now.”

Gar grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll be ready.”

MatPat grinned back. “Talk to you later, then.”

Gar lifted a hand in farewell. “Later.”

\-----

Skip mewled as soon as they walked in the door, repeatedly putting himself in the way of their feet.

“We'll feed you soon.” Steph scritched Skip lightly. “We're just going to have tea first, alright?”

Skip meowed again.

“Patience, Skip.” MatPat shook his head. Skip kept winding around their feet while they attempted to slip out of their scarves and coats and shoes. He wouldn’t leave them alone, even when they left the entryway for the warmth of their cozy kitchen. “We did feed him this morning, right?”

“I fed him before you were even awake. He probably just missed us.” Steph smiled and took a seat at the table, allowing Skip up into her lap. He seemed to calm somewhat when she started petting him; scratching beneath his chin.

MatPat scoffed softly while he set about gathering the necessary supplies for their tea time. “Missed you, more like. With how you spoil him.” His tone was teasing, and he barely caught a glimpse of Steph’s wry smile in his peripheral.

“Don’t be jealous. Just because you have to compete for my affections with the other man of the house.”

“Oh so he’s been upgraded? When did we discuss this?” MatPat put the kettle on to boil and examined the small metal tin of tea leaves in his hands.

“We didn’t have to. As the woman of the house, I get to decide who the men are.” Steph was still teasing, but she changed topics when she spied the tin in his hands. “Is that the one Judge Fischbach gave you yesterday? For your birthday?”

“Yes, he called it ‘oolong.’ Said it’s good for stress and the skin and would help give an energy boost when I needed it.” MatPat pried the lid off and brought the contents up to sniff at them curiously. His immediate reaction was a pleased hum. “It smells darb, Stephanie. I can’t wait to try it.”

“I hope you thanked him. He’s probably the nicest politician you’ve dealt with. And the only one I’ve ever liked.” Steph gave a cheeky little smirk when MatPat looked back at her, and he couldn’t stop himself from reciprocating.

“Oh come now, they’re not all  _ that  _ bad…”

“You’re smiling.”

“And if I am?”

“That means even you can’t take that statement seriously.”

MatPat sighed, but it was an amused one, and he chuckled a little. “Okay, you caught me. They  _ are  _ pretty foul. Fischbach’s a welcomed change. I wish I only had to deal with him.” The kettle whistled just as MatPat was spooning a good helping of the tea leaves into another pot. His brow furrowed as he set the steaming kettle to the side. “Now if I remember right, he said the water had to cool down a bit first…”

“Really?”

MatPat gave a nod. “He said let it cool, then let it steep, and then strain it- Stephanie, where did you put the…?”

“Hanging on the wall. I didn’t want them to get bent or lost.” Steph let Skip jump down from her lap and he immediately went to MatPat, weaving around and rubbing against his legs.

“No, no, this isn’t your food. Be patient.” MatPat scolded their needy companion and grabbed the small tea-cup strainers from the wall. “Did you want to try it first or should I dig out the honey from wherever you’ve hidden it away this time?”

“I do not hide the honey.”

“Of course not. And I don’t keep a secret stash of Coca-Cola under the bed.”

“You realize I’m now going to thoroughly search beneath our bed, right? You drink too much of that stuff.”

“That’s why I lied about the location.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being facetious or not. Using reverse psychology on your wife is spousal abuse.” Steph huffed a bit and crossed her arms over her chest.

MatPat was still grinning as he poured the slightly cooled water into the pot with the tea leaves. He popped the lid on and then began poking through the cupboards while it steeped. “Lies and slander. You  _ love  _ when I bring out the psychology.”

“Perhaps. Though not nearly so much when it’s used on  _ me.”  _ She watched him for a few moments before rolling her eyes. “Goodness, Matthew, what are you  _ looking for? _ ”

“Those- the little cakes, that we picked up from Pansino’s a few days ago. Remember? With the chocolate and that Italian buttercream you can’t get enough of…”

“Are you sure you didn’t eat them all? Honestly, Matthew. Sometimes your sweet tooth astounds me.” Steph scoffed in amusement when MatPat located the treat and immediately emitted a joyful cry as a result of his success. “You’re such a child.”

MatPat shot her an exaggerated pout where he clutched at the cake box. “I am not. I just enjoy good pastries!” He removed the lid and set the half-empty box on the table. There was a noticeable gleam in his brown eyes when Steph was quick to grab for a cake, but she pointedly ignored him. “I think the tea’s ready. Just try it alone and then if you want it sweeter I’ll get the honey.”

“With these cakes, I think anymore sweetness will put me into a sugar coma.” Steph was smiling while she watched her husband carefully pour the tea into their respective cups, straining out the leaves. It was a lovely golden-yellow color and when he brought their cups over to the table, it smelled divine. She eagerly lifted her cup to breathe in the scent. “Oh, that’s just berries.”

“Isn’t it? I’ll have to thank the judge again for such a gracious gift. I’m sure it was expensive.” MatPat indulged in a cake before trying his tea, while Steph didn’t hesitate to take a curious sip. “How is it?” The words were partially muffled by chocolate and cream, causing Steph to giggle.

“Swallow first. Mm. It’s not half bad. I don’t think I’d add honey to it. Maybe some milk? I think that would do wonders, but having the cake with it helps.” She took another hearty sip and nodded towards his own cup. “Don’t let it sit too long. It’s already cooler than what we’re used to.”

“Oh, right.” MatPat finished off his cake and took more of a gulp than he’d meant to. The strong but pleasant flavor washed over his tongue and he beamed. “Oh, that’s the bee’s knees. Now I have to ask him where he bought it from.”

Neither noticed Skip sitting on the floor beside the table, watching them with sharp eyes.

“So… Gar seemed nice.”

MatPat quirked a brow at the shift in topic and sipped at his tea. “Yeah… why am I sensing a “but” at the end of that sentence?”

Steph laughed softly. “Because you’re a good detective.” She hummed to herself, lightly swirling her tea. “I mean… okay, so he  _ is  _ nice, I meant that. He’s just a little… odd.”

“Odd?” MatPat’s expression was skeptical. “You say that as if we’re not.”

She scoffed again, but her amusement was obvious. “I meant in a… I don’t know how to describe it. He just gave me a weird… feeling. It seemed like he was trying to hide something.”

“Mmph.” MatPat failed at speaking around another bite of cake and quickly swallowed. “Probably the mess he made on the floor with all those books. Not exactly the best first impression.”

“Maybe…”

“Are you concerned?” MatPat forced himself to be a little more serious as he addressed Steph’s tone, his brow furrowing. “Stephanie…”

“It’s nothing.” She gave another little laugh but it was awkward; clearly an attempt to soothe his worries. She tried to wash down the unease nibbling at her skin with another sip of tea. “I’m just being silly. Maybe it’s the caffeine.”

“Hm. Fischbach did say the oolong would give a boost. Plus with all the sugar… maybe we should put the cakes away for now. I’m sure it’ll pass. We could go for another walk, if you need to burn off the energy.” MatPat slipped the lid back onto the box and stood to tuck it away again. By the time he returned to the table he was rubbing lightly at his forehead.

“Are you alright?”

“Just… a bit of a headache, all of a sudden. Again, it’s probably just the sugar. No more sweets with this stuff.” His mouth felt strangely dry, so he finished off his cup and instead of sitting moved to refill it. “Did you want some more?”

“No, I think I should probably just have some water. We shouldn’t have stuffed our faces with those cakes; my stomach isn’t too happy with me.” She pressed lightly at her stomach with a regretful sigh. A meow drew her attention to Skip, who was pawing at her leg. The smile she offered the worried feline was a little strained. “It’s okay, Skip. Just a stomachache. How about we get you fed?”

While MatPat poured himself more tea, Steph stood to take care of Skip. She stumbled a bit as she rose and had to grab onto the table for support. MatPat whirled on her in an instant, very nearly spilling tea across the counter. “Stephanie?”

“I’m- I’m  _ fine,  _ Matthew. Calm down. Just stood up too quickly. I must have a real sugar rush going on.” Steph rubbed at her own forehead but made it to the cupboard fine, grabbing up Skip’s dish to fill it. “I think I might actually lie down in a minute.”

“Mm, that’s alright. I’ll be going back to work soon so I’ll just take a look at some files while you rest.” MatPat downed his second cup of tea surprisingly fast, but it didn’t seem to help with his sudden dry mouth. He frowned.

There was a clatter, and then a thud. MatPat shifted his gaze to where his wife had been standing, but it felt as if the movement was in slow motion. The world around him blurred in his vision and almost made him sick, his fingertips digging into the counter. A terrible rush of unease had settled over his skin long before his eyes fell upon the collapsed form of Steph. They widened, and his breath hitched. “Stephanie-”

His attempt to step towards her was a disaster. It was as if every signal his brain attempted to send the rest of his body was being slowed to an absolute crawl. Like someone had spilled molasses all over the path and his subconscious commands, his thoughts, could scarcely trudge through it. His foot didn’t  _ move,  _ and his knee buckled, and he toppled into a near kneel only because his hand stubbornly clung to the counter on the way down. He grunted, his head spinning and belatedly catching onto the fact a heaviness had settled over his body. Like someone had draped a thick, wool blanket over him. He inhaled sharply.

“Stephanie…” There was more, MatPat wanted to say  _ more  _ but the words just wouldn’t come out. They were all a jumbled mess in his head and only one stood out above the chaos. The name always on the tip of his tongue, at the forefront of his mind, stitched into every last beat of his heart and seared into his very soul. “Stephanie.”

_ “...still awake… thought you said….” _

_ “...higher tolerance… out soon….” _

The whispers of unfamiliar voices hit the edge of MatPat’s ears. Still, he stared at his wife, using every last ounce of willpower he had to try and coax his body forward. He  _ needed  _ to get to her. A hiss interrupted his scattered thoughts, it was Skip, he hadn’t even realized Skip had been meowing and yowling around Steph’s body until he stopped. The cat’s fur was ruffled up, his back arched in a defensive gesture. MatPat blinked, and regretted it instantly when he found it much harder to keep his eyes open.

_ “...out of here.” _

Vaguely, he saw a foot gingerly shove Skip aside, towards the hall. Skip hissed more furiously and swiped at the appendage but then backed away, clearly frightened. MatPat tried making his brain work. Steph would never kick out at Skip- wait, no, Steph was on the floor. Why was Steph on the floor? “Steph…” His jaw lagged, and he couldn’t push out the rest. He grunted.

_ “...sleep…” _

Something touched at his shoulder, and then it was pressing forwards. His urge to resist came several seconds late, and his heavy body toppled like a tower of haphazardly stacked blocks. Movement was futile. Lead lined him from head to toe while feet stepped over and around him, around Steph. He felt his figurative hackles rise when hands grasped for her. “St…”

_ “...careful….” _

_ “I am careful.” _

MatPat grunted and wheezed out unintelligible noises, his tongue no longer willing to work; just a useless muscle sitting in his mouth. His surroundings were losing more and more detail as his vision unfocused, urging him to sleep. Sleep sounded so good, yet Steph was being picked up off the floor, and there was nothing MatPat could do. Even with the last of his efforts, his arm could scarcely slide across the floor towards the culprits, his internal cries of outrage and fear reduced to a garbled mess.

_ “Shhh….” _

One pair of feet drew close again.

_ “...go…” _

_ “Go… second….” _

MatPat saw the other set leave and caught the briefest glimpse of the stranger carrying Steph’s limp, blurry form. His heart leaped into his throat and the ensuing noise it made from his slack jaw was pitiful. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and eventually they succumbed to the weight encompassing his brain. His ears shut down a few seconds later, though, allowing him one final whisper:

_ “...I’m sorry….” _


	44. Dead Men Tell No Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) We update it with every new chapter!
> 
> Today's tunes:  
> Siesta- Thelonius Monk Big Band  
> Rotten Orchestra- Dronny Darko

Gar glanced at the clock on the office wall, then at the door. MatPat should have arrived almost an hour ago, but he wasn’t here.

Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong.

There was a light knock on the doorframe, and Gar looked up to see Patrck leaning there.

“I’d have thought you’d gone home by now,” Gar said by way of greeting.

“And I thought you wouldn’t be here, and yet here you are.” Patrck glanced at MatPat’s empty desk. “Everything okay?”

Gar shrugged. “He hasn’t shown up. I’m worried, honestly.”

Patrck frowned. “That does sound rather unlike him, doesn’t it?”

Gar nodded.

Patrck glanced over his shoulder at the main room. “Well, I’m off my shift. If you want, I can go with you to try and find him. Maybe he just slept in.”

Gar made a face. “Maybe, but...” He sighed. “I don’t know. He’s never been this late before—besides my first day, I mean,” he added wryly. 

“He could have gotten stuck in the snow,” Patrck offered, stepping into the office.

“Maybe.” Gar tapped his fingers on his desk. “But something seems wrong.” He stood. “I’m going to take you up on that offer.”   


Patrck nodded. “I’ll grab my coat. Meet you outside.”

Gar threw on his own coat, tucking his detective journal into the inside pocket, and made his way out of the office. Nobody stopped him, though he wasn’t sure if that was from a lack of care, a lack of noticing, or not daring to startle the guy who almost died a week ago.

He shook his head. What had his life come to?

“I guess I’ll also say ‘welcome back to work’,” Patrck said as he clapped Gar on the shoulder, “though I’m not terribly sure you want to be here. I wouldn’t.”

Gar shuddered at the memory of what had happened. “It was weird not being here, not doing things.” It had also given him plenty of time to wait for his father’s reaction on Drake’s death.

“That’s a very you thing to do.” Patrck laughed. “You’re really well matched to MatPat.”

Gar grinned. “He’s a good teacher.”

“That’s good to hear.” Patrck shook himself and yawned. “I’m glad one of us has a competent partner.”

Gar frowned. Right. Patrck’s partner had died Halloween night. “I-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Patrck shrugged. “You did the best you could. I honestly wasn’t expecting to come out of it alive, and here I am.”

“We need to stop hanging out with death.” Gar shook his head. “Too many close calls.”   


“No kidding.”

“Other than the almost-dead thing, how’s life been?” Gar prodded carefully. Patrck hadn’t really answered the last time he’d asked that.

Patrck shrugged. “Normal, I guess. Life is stressful.”

“...how’s Marie?”

Patrck’s shoulders tensed. “She’s fine.”

Gar frowned. “If you need to talk about something...” Was someone harassing Marie? Hopefully they weren’t drifting apart.

Patrck was silent for a long moment—it was only the sound of their footsteps crunching in the snow—then he sighed. “It’s just... people are being obnoxious and rude, saying things about her to get at me.”

Gar frowned deeper. “That’s just wrong.”

“It’s been rough on both of us. I honestly don’t even tell her most of the things people say anymore, with how awful they’ve become.”

“Is there any way I can help?”

Patrck gave Gar a small, sad smile. “I don’t think so, no. I’m doing my best to ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away by itself.”

They both knew that wasn’t true.

The two turned the conversation to lighter topics as they made their way to MatPat’s house, where Gar knocked on the door.

No response.

Gar and Patrck exchanged a look. Steph was usually home at this point of the day.

Gar knocked again, harder this time.

This time, a soft scratching came from the inside of the door, and the faintest mewl.

“I didn’t know MatPat had a cat.” Patrck blinked. 

“Mmhmm, Skip. Likes attention.” Gar frowned at the door. “He’s never done this, though.”

Patrck glanced at the windows. “That’s the only light on.” He pointed.

Gar quietly examined it, trying to place where that would be inside the house. He’d only been inside once before, when MatPat had forgotten his scarf, but it seemed to be the kitchen area.

That was odd. Why would the only light be in there?

Gar knocked again, and Skip’s mewl turned into a yowl.

“What if something’s wrong?” Gar turned to Patrck. “We can’t get in to see.”

Patrck glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to Gar. “Promise not to get me in trouble?”

Gar narrowed his eyes, but nodded.

Patrck crouched next to the door, fiddling with the lock. After a minute or so, the lock clicked and Patrck pushed the door open.

Instantly, Skip was darting between their feet, yowling impatiently.

“Woah!” Patrck bent and scooped up Skip. “Calm down.”

Skip yowled again, jumping from Patrck’s arms and darting inside.

Gar glanced at Patrck, then slipped inside and followed.

Their footsteps thudded dully on the floor, and nobody came to ask them how they’d gotten inside.

Gar frowned, his worry climbing, and followed the small form of Skip down the hall and into the doorway of the kitchen.

The only thing Gar could see was some clearly cold tea sitting on the counter, and a box of now-dried out cakes from Pansino’s.

Gar frowned and stepped around the table, ready to investigate for closer clues, to figure out why Skip had led him here.

He froze as MatPat’s crumpled body came into view.

Had- had he been poisoned? Where was Steph?

Patrck’s sharp “Gar!” was brushed aside as he darted forward and crouched next to MatPat’s still form.

“Is he...” Patrck asked as Gar felt for a pulse and listened for breathing.

Gar bit his lip, then nearly crumpled himself as he found both. “He’s alive.”

Patrck’s sigh was clearly audible. “You try to wake him, then. I’ll search the house, see if I can find any sign of his wife.” He walked off muttering something about how he couldn’t say Mrs. Patrick because of his own name, but Gar was too focused on MatPat to really pay attention.

First things first, he pulled MatPat into a better position. He didn’t know how long his partner had been crumpled like that, but it couldn’t be comfortable. (Besides, at his advanced age of 30, MatPat had to be careful of his joints.)

Then he set about trying to wake MatPat.

Hopefully he would be able to. Hopefully MatPat hadn’t been poisoned, just drugged. Without knowing how long it had been, though, Gar hadn’t the slightest idea. He wasn’t Minx, after all.

“Matthew, Matthew. Come on, Matthew, wake up.” He carefully shook MatPat’s shoulder.

\-----

“Stephanie! Stephanie!”

MatPat’s sharp cries echoed about the shadows engulfing him. His heart was racing, brown eyes wide with a mixture of terror and confusion. He whipped wildly around, dashing in sporadic bursts through the nothing. His eyes sought for something-  _ anything-  _ that might pose a clue as to where his wife had gone. “Stephanie!”

“Still looking, are we? You never stopped  _ looking… _ ”

The voice crashing into his ears wasn’t Steph’s, but it did belong to a person he recognized. His rapidly beating heart went dead still in his chest. He pivoted on his heel, mouth agape. “Ja-”

“Matthew.”

The sight before MatPat made his mouth turn dry and his blood run cold. There, standing before him, was the ragged, decrepit and half-decayed corpse of Jason Parker, his ex-partner and good friend. His skin was blue, the rotting flesh sagging on bones made visible. His eyes were long gone and half of his teeth were completely exposed where his cheek and jaw had fallen away. The half of his face which remained was pulled into a frown.

“Jason…”

“You’ve always been looking. Looking for thugs, looking for leads, looking for speakeasies… looking for me. For my killer. But you didn’t find them, did you?”

MatPat’s breath caught and burned in his throat, mimicking the sensation in his eyes. He tried to blink it away. “Jason, I…”

“You what? You tried? It’s been almost a year, Matthew. What kind of detective are you? Can’t even locate your partner’s killer… but no. You have a  _ new  _ partner now, don’t you?”

“It- it’s not like that, Jason…”

“You replaced me. Just like that. Moved on with your mysteries; back to the speakeasies. You never cared. You never tried to understand.”

“No, no, I did, Jason! I swear I did!”

“Right. That’s why I died. Did a little too much of this, right?” Jason lifted an imaginary bottle up, pretending to guzzle it down in a miming mockery. The imagery was more gruesome with how MatPat could witness the movements of his jaw itself. “That’s what everyone believes, anyway. Just another dead drunk.”

“No-”

“And now Stephanie’s gone, and you’re still looking. You’re going to look forever, Matthew, until you’re six feet under like me.”

Something sloshed against MatPat’s pantlegs and he looked down. The sharp smell of liquor hit his nostrils and he realized with horror that the space, which had previously seemed endless, was rapidly filling with booze.

“Jason, no! I’m sorry! I tried!” Except Jason said nothing. Not even as the alcohol rose up over his head, as it sucked MatPat down beneath its bitter waves. He tried to hold his breath, but he couldn’t find the surface and he gagged, sucking the drink into his lungs.

Abruptly, hands grasped at his shoulders, and he found himself hefted up onto something solid, and dry. He gasped, choking and heaving, coughing up acrid-smelling booze while a hand patted at his back.

“Easy, easy. I gotcha.”

He recognized that voice too. Jason was gone, but standing in his place now was Gar. MatPat heaved and wheezed as his lungs recovered, reaching up to pat appreciatively at Gar’s leg. It was the only part of his partner he could reach. Eventually, he managed to get his voice back, though it still stuttered after his near-drowning experience.

“Gar… G-Gar, Gar, it’s St-Stephanie- St-Stephanie, my wife, sh-she’s gone, somebody took her, we need… we have to….”

“Matthew, calm down. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

MatPat wheezed out a raw-sounding scoff at that and finally lifted his gaze to look up at Gar.

“Oh, Christ, Gar, I think I-” He choked again, this time on his own breath and spit. Brown eyes shot wide open and he jerked away from Gar as if physically stung. He tried to speak, but all he could do was utter a “guh” sound over and over again while he gawked up at the man looming over him.

“What’s wrong, Matthew? Aren’t you happy to see your partner?” Unlike the rotting figure of Jason, everything about Gar looked normal. Everything- except his face, which was a completely blank slate. No eyes, mouth or nose. No expression to be seen whatsoever. Gar had become the definition of ‘Faceless.’

“C’mon, let me help you up…”

Gar’s voice rung in his ears and MatPat’s breathing escalated when that inhuman face drew near. He scrambled backwards, all the alcohol having apparently evaporated, and rapidly shook his head.

“No no no, n-no, no! Stay back!”

“Matthew….”

“I told you…”

MatPat’s head snapped around at the introduction of another voice. Ever familiar, ever haunting; as if all of his failures were deciding to pay him a visit. There Drake stood, still clad in his usual work clothes. Deathly pale, but not blue like Jason. Not rotting- not yet. He stared down MatPat with hollow eyes, his entire front drenched with blood from the bullet wound in his chest. Trails of it stained his chin and jaw and neck.

“I  _ told  _ you the truth… but you wouldn’t listen… you always refuse to listen….”

“You’re wrong. He’s not…” MatPat looked back up at Gar’s blank face, swallowing hard. He hadn’t moved or said a word; just kept staring at him. “...he’s not one of them. They aren’t real. The Faceless aren’t real! You were delusional. You let your paranoia get into your head-”

“And you didn’t?” Drake’s voice seethed and roiled with all the hatred of a murdered man. “You haven’t been chasing a dead end since the death of your real partner? Since Jason drunk himself into an early grave? You aren’t chasing down speakeasies because of the law or because of that judge. You want to find the one that killed him.” He sneered at MatPat’s quivering form.

MatPat gaped like a fish, opening and closing his mouth several times. He had nothing to say. He knew Drake was right. Beneath his job, what was his core motivation to keep going? To keep hunting down these illegal hotspots where Boston’s citizens could go and forget about the cruel world for a night? Gar took a step closer and MatPat’s gaze snapped back to him on reflex, noting the journal he now held in his arms. He tensed.

“Don’t…”

“Dead men tell no tales, Matthew. Not him.” Gar slowly nodded his head towards Drake. “And not Jason.” He opened his arms, letting the journal fall to the floor with a resounding thud. “...and not your wife, Stephanie-”

“Don’t you dare say that about her!” MatPat’s hackles rose, even as a fresh thrill of terror coursed through him. It was as if Gar had read his mind and spoken his deepest, darkest fear out loud. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the journal, to glower and point at the monster which  _ must  _ be occupying his partner’s body. “Don’t you dare! She’s not dead! She’s not dying, she’s just- I just need to  _ find her. _ ”

“You couldn’t even find a trustworthy partner.” Gar’s words were a rough growl in the void. “ _ Dead men tell no tales,  _ Matthew. Not them, and not me.”

Before MatPat could question the phrasing, there was a deafening gunshot, and then Gar’s body was crumpling to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been severed. Standing there in his wake was Drake, no less dead, but wielding a smoking gun. His gaze hadn’t softened an inch while he stared MatPat down. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” He aimed the gun at his own chest, directly where MatPat had shot him. “A life for a life.”

The gun went off again, and MatPat flinched, blinking on reflex. When his eyes opened, the gun was in his own hands, and there were two bodies crumpled on the ground. The smell of blood filled the air and he gasped, letting the gun drop from his shaking hands. He could feel the color drain from his face as he stared at the carnage in horror.

“Gar, no, Gar… Gar…!” MatPat cursed and dropped down to clutch at Gar’s body, rolling him over. He wasn’t met with the blank face again, or even Gar’s face. Instead, Jason’s half-rotted one stared up at him lifelessly and he screamed. He threw himself back, nearly losing his balance on Jason’s journal. He was white as a sheet. “What… what’s… it’s… it’s a dream. It has to be a dream, none of this makes any sense, it… it’s not real!”

Whispers tickled at the edge of his hearing and MatPat looked up, examining his surroundings with the same endless fear he’d been experiencing since the beginning. At first, he thought he was alone, but gradually faces appeared in the darkness- no, not faces.  _ Masks.  _ Masks of white and black and the occasional color, all shapes and sizes. Some bore the guise of an animal; others, symbols. He recognized the rounded one with the blank stare and expressionless mouth: he’d seen it at Kjellberg’s mansion the night of their poker tournament. All the masks watched him, inched closer to him, all while accompanied by those wordless whispers.

His skin crawled and he placed his hands over his ears. “No… no, you’re not real. You’re not real! None of this is real! Stephanie! Stephanie!” MatPat scrabbled for the journal he’d felt beneath his hands, hugging it tightly to his chest as he stumbled back to his feet. “Stephanie! I-I need… I need to find  _ Stephanie. _ ”

He ran. MatPat didn’t know what else to do. At his feet was death; all around him were the expressionless yet judging faces of Boston’s boogie monsters. He ran, none of them attempting to stop him, not one slowing him down. Occasionally, snippets of their hissing whispers made it past his own hurried breaths.

_ “...murderer…” _

_ “...inept…” _

_ “...useless…” _

_ “...paranoid…” _

“No, no, you’re wrong, you’re wrong, I’m not… I’m not…!  _ Stephanie! _ ” MatPat knew he was outright screaming, but he didn’t care. Anything to drown them out. Anything to bring Stephanie back into his arms. He ran until his muscles ached; until his lungs felt ready to give out.

At some point, the stench of blood and decay was replaced with a sweet perfume. Whispers shifted to dainty giggles and the clinking of glasses. The light tap of heels echoed on an invisible floor. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, scoped out his surroundings as he gradually lost momentum.

_ Foxgloves. _

An entire field of foxgloves, swaying in a breeze MatPat couldn’t feel. Their cloying scent flooded his lungs and stuck in his throat. Blond hair whipped across his vision for a split second and he forced his eyes to focus. The giggles solidified into one solitary chuckle as the dark-clad figure of a woman sauntered away from him. She didn’t even spare him a glance as the foxgloves parted for her like Moses and the Red Sea.

_ She’s known for poisons… _

Gar’s voice echoed in his head again, and his eyes widened. Jason, Stephanie, the booze,  _ the tea.  _ MatPat forced his exhausted feet to move and chased after her, tearing carelessly through the flowers. “Wait! Wait! What have you done with Stephanie?! Answer me!” Madame Foxglove continued ignoring him. More voices drifted through his head, the flowers shifting to tables and chairs.

_ There’s a lot of rumors about speakeasies in South Boston… _

Laughter. Jazz music. Clinking glasses and drinks being poured. MatPat had lost Madame Foxglove in a crowd of faceless people. They weren’t like Gar, or the masks. All of their features blurred whenever he tried to focus on one and eventually he gave up.

_ We get a lot of rumors… _

MatPat shoved his way through the crowd with the same reckless abandon he’d used in the flower field. People crumpled as he passed, wounds opening with his every touch, but still the noise continued. He had to find her. He had to find Stephanie. He had to find Jason-

No. No, Jason was dead. He wasn’t looking for Jason, he was looking for-

_ “Matthew!” _

“Stephanie!” MatPat crashed through the last vestiges of the crowd. Blood stained him from head to toe, and Stephanie screamed at the sight of him. Or maybe it was in response to the disembodied hands dragging her off; carrying her away into the darkness.

“Stephanie!” He reached out, tripping over his feet as he ran. Yet no matter how fast he moved, how many steps he took, he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

And Stephanie was moving farther and farther away from him. “Matthew!"

“Stephanie!” MatPat glanced down, hoping to discover what was holding him back. His eyes widened. Scattered beneath his feet were sheets upon sheets of paper. Pages filled with the handwriting of his deceased partner. At some point, the journal had fallen from his grasp, and the contents had spread everywhere. They wouldn’t let him move; they merely kept him anchored to the same place as Stephanie was pulled from his life. He cried out in frustration.

“Stephanie!”

There was no call of his name, this time. Grief engulfed MatPat and his foot slid too far on his next step, sending him tumbling down into the mass of papers. He sunk into them, immediately getting swallowed up to his chest and he gasped. His hands grasped and floundered through the mess for some kind of purchase, but there was nothing to hold onto.

Slowly, the pages pulled him in, more raining down from above to smother and blind him. He screamed, calling his wife’s name until he was hoarse, until all he could hear was shuffling paper and the slosh of liquid. He was drowning, but in what he couldn’t say.

He was drowning, and he couldn’t breathe.

He was drowning, and Stephanie was gone.

\-----

The only warning Gar had before MatPat jerked awake was a gasp, and then he was being grabbed at.

“Woah!” Gar braced himself with his free arm to keep himself from pitching down on MatPat, though relief was running through him at the change in MatPat’s consciousness. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

MatPat’s gaze slowly focused on Gar and his gasping breaths slowly eased. Then MatPat frowned. “...Gar? What are you doing here?”

“You never showed up for work. I was worried, so I came looking for you.” Gar frowned in concern. “It took me a good ten minutes to wake you. Where’s Steph?”

MatPat’s hand tightened on Gar’s wrist hard enough to make him wince.

“Stephanie-” MatPat’s eyes widened, and he gasped before frantically trying to push himself up. His body screamed at him, and he collapsed in pain. “Stephanie! She was taken- last night. Two people, their whispers...” 

Gar turned a bit away as tears started to well up in MatPat’s eyes, trying to offer the slightest bit of dignity for his partner.

Patrck shifted in the doorway, frowning.

“Do you know who it was?” Gar asked gently, not wanting to further upset MatPat.

MatPat shook his head, even as Skip curled into his side. “I’ve never heard their voices before.” He blinked rapidly, his breathing just as rapid and getting uneven. “They- they took her. I tried to st-stop them, but-” MatPat’s voice cracked.

Gar put a reassuring hand on MatPat’s shoulder. “You did everything you could.”

MatPat took a shuddering breath, clearly panicking. “I didn’t- I didn’t do enough! She’s gone!”

Gar glanced at Patrck, who was still frowning, then took a deep breath and laid on his side and pulled MatPat into a full body hug. “Hey, don’t think about that right now. Just focus on me. I’m here. I have you.”

“I- I-”

Gar pulled MatPat in tighter, to the point where his own rib began complaining slightly. “Focus on my voice. We’ll figure this out. We’ll do it together, alright? We’re not abandoning her. I’m not leaving you either, okay?”

Gar continued to murmur reassurances, and slowly MatPat’s own breathing calmed before he fell silent.

Then: “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Another pause.

“You can let go of me now.”

“Alright.”

The two laid there on the floor for another few minutes before MatPat took a deep breath and twisted his head to look at Gar.

“Yes?” Gar asked.

“How did you get in?”

Gar and Patrck glanced at each other, but neither said anything.

MatPat raised an eyebrow. “Ah.”

Slowly, MatPat pushed himself to a sitting position, and then to his feet. “I... I guess I need to report a kidnapping.”

Gar got up next to him. “I’ll be there next to you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

MatPat smiled weakly, then nodded.

Later, as MatPat reported Steph missing and taken from their own home, Gar took a moment to talk to Patrck.

“You can go, if you want. I've got him.”

Patrck rubbed at his face, clearly exhausted from a full shift, and the events following. “I'll do that.” He glanced to the side as he pulled his coat on once again, muttering something Gar didn't quite catch. Something about Marie, and worry, but he'd walked out before Gar could ask him what he meant.

“Detective Bluemoon.” The chief's voice said from behind him, and Gar turned to respond. “I understand you want to help search for Mrs. Patrick, but you don't have the street experience you need to fully be able to help with it.”

Gar paused. That almost sounded like a made-up excuse to keep him from helping MatPat, but he did vaguely recall something being mentioned about it a long time ago.

“You'll be spending the next week with Officer Muyskens in South Boston. Once that's done, you can join the search for Mrs. Patrick.”

Gar too a deep breath, frowned, and nodded. “Acknowledged.”

MatPat was going to be miserable in that week.


	45. “Anonymous Arsonist Absent”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>  Today's tunes:  
> The Ruby and the Pearl - Branford Marsalis Quartet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, this chapter has a lot of discussions and mentions of attempted suicide. Please be aware.

_Tuesday, November 20, 1923_

__

_Over the past several weeks, an unknown arsonist has been starting fires in abandoned warehouses and leaving them to burn. They have been careful enough not to leave any clues as to who they may be, or what their motivation for doing this could be._

_Most concerningly, these fires aren’t just the product of someone wanting to set fires. All of them are the results of various kinds of explosives. They were small ones at first, causing smaller fires, but the power of the explosives has grown in size with each new burned warehouse._

_Furthermore, the frequency of these explosive-caused fires has remained rather consistent, at about one a week, though the day of the week doesn’t have any discernable pattern to it._

_It is quite possible whoever is doing these things is preparing for something, though neither we nor the authorities have any idea what it could be._

_This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil._

_Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column!_

Dan quietly opened the envelope containing the newest photos he and Phil had developed. There were the expected ones, the ones they’d taken while chasing stories; then there were ones of flowers. Or dogs. Or a bird.

Dan shook his head and frowned, setting those ones aside. It looked like he needed to talk to Phil again. Not only was the film expensive and the developing process rather time-consuming, they just weren’t supposed to use this camera for anything but work.

At least the photos were good. No one could deny Phil had natural talent there. .

He was currently looking for exactly one set of photos, though, so he pushed the thoughts aside and continued shuffling through the pile.

Shuffled feet sounded from the doorway, and Dan glanced up to see Phil standing there, rubbing his eyes.

“Did they come out okay?”

Dan nodded, resisting the temptation to yawn himself. He raised the photos he’d finally found.

“They’re fine.” He hated his job sometimes. Especially when they’d been up all night getting everything ready for this morning’s story.

“Any news on what caused it?”

“Nothing new.” Dan slid the photos of the burning warehouse back into the envelope before standing. “Is the story ready to go?”

Phil yawned and nodded. “I finished it just before I dozed off.” He blinked wearily. “What time is it?”

“Four in the morning.” Dan scooped up the envelope. “I’ll get everything to work. You go ahead and sleep. One of us will have to be awake later for Chris.”

Phil straightened a bit. “That’s right, he gets here today.” He paused. “Are you ready?”

Dan shrugged, reaching for his coat. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not about to turn him onto the streets.”

Phil made a soft sound of protest. “Dan-”

Dan shook his head, pushing past Phil. “I’ll work through it.”

“Dan-”

Dan ignored him and dropped the typed up article into the envelope before tucking it into his coat pocket. With the door of their apartment clicking shut behind him he clattered as loudly as the hour permitted down the stairs. He didn’t bother really buttoning up his coat as he turned into the tiny foyer of the apartment building and stepped out—and got a blast of freezing air for his efforts.

The air stole his breath. He knew Phil would yell at him if he knew Dan was being so casual about his own well-being, but it was nice to feel something other than numbness and unease.

Dan frowned at himself. When had this become normal?

He sighed, trudging across the streets, ignoring the darkness of the very early morning.

Hurried footsteps crunched through the icy snow behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Phil running after him.

“You’re going to freeze.” Dan returned his gaze to the sidewalk.

“You’re the one walking around with an unbuttoned coat!” Phil’s worry was audible. “It’s November, Dan. November! You’re going to get sick!”

Dan clenched his teeth. “I’ll be fine.”

Phil didn’t respond, and Dan finally glanced over to see Phil giving him a perturbed look.

“What?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Dan shook his head. He didn’t even want to think about it. Thinking hurt too much.

Phil frowned, but didn’t press the issue. It was winter; everything was always worse in the winter. He knew winter brought memories of bombs destabilized by the cold and killing squadmates, of friends dying to the elements, of that first winter back when both of them had almost died after Dan’s dunk in the river...

“Button your coat, Dan.” He wasn’t going to risk Dan freezing to death, no matter how fine Dan claimed he was.

Dan said nothing, and for a moment Phil was afraid he was going to have to interrupt Dan’s walking to do it himself (it wouldn’t have been the first time; Dan was awful at taking care of himself when he was like this), but then Dan’s hands slowly moved to clumsily fasten the buttons.

“Where are your gloves?” Phil blinked, then frowned.

“Lost them somewhere.” Dan shrugged a shoulder.

Phil frowned more. “You should have told me.”

“It’s not like we have the money for new ones.”

“You need your hands, Dan. They’re important.”

Dan remained silent.

Phil sighed. “Let’s just get the article and pictures to work, okay? Then we can sleep until noon.”

After a long silence, filled with the crunch of their shoes on the snow, Dan sighed too. “Deal.”

\-----

The moon was low in the sky by the time they were headed back to their apartment. Both of them had fallen silent shortly after delivering their day’s work, too exhausted from little sleep to even make efforts at conversation. Besides, Dan was back to ignoring Phil, so there wasn’t much point in talking.

Phil glanced up at Dan—partially to convince himself Dan hadn’t gone off and done something stupid; partially to see if Dan looked inclined towards talking.

Dan’s gaze was fixed on the ground.

Phil resisted the temptation to sigh. Dan hadn’t been this bad in years. Usually he at least said _something_ to reassure Phil he was still going to be around in the morning.

_Bang._

The unmuffled sound of a gunshot echoed from a nearby alley. Both he and Dan flinched. They’d heard gunshots before (Dan more than Phil). They’d been shot at before (again, Dan more than Phil). They’d seen people die before (yet again, Dan more than Phil).

They knew what they were supposed to do. It was South Boston, it was still ridiculously early, it was dark, and they had no idea what had gone down.

They were supposed to walk away.

Dan and Phil exchanged a long look, an argument happening in that single glance. “Let’s see if we can help,” said Phil’s eyes. “Let’s survive the night,” said Dan’s frown.

As usual, Dan won.

It was a compelling argument, after all. Phil had spent far too much time making sure Dan lived through these nights to change that now.

So they kept walking. And it hurt, knowing someone might be able to survive the night if he and Dan stopped, but he couldn’t help people in the future if he died tonight.

Footsteps sounded. Phil risked a glance to the side, only to see blood-spattered shoes step from an alley.

Oh no.

Oh no oh no oh no.

A sigh sounded, and the quiet, metallic sounds of someone reloading a gun.

Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no.

A man muttered a curse—something about witnesses—the Irish lilt curling bitterly through the air.

_Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no no no no no._

Phil had frozen next to Dan, and despite himself Dan lifted his head to see what was happening.

What he saw was a body sprawled in an alley and a man shaking his head, eyes following them as they stood there.

“I hate taking care of witnesses.”

The man’s muttered words sent a chilling shock through Dan, and his hand automatically dug into his pocket and curled around the gun there. It was loaded, as it always was, and his fingers were already tightening around the handle.

If he needed to shoot, to save him and Phil, he could.

A nagging feeling of shooting this very gun dozens of times before, of fighting for his life and the life of his squadmates in the war, of the blood, of the light slipping from too many eyes-

Dan’s breath shuddered, and it took all his focus not to allow that train of thought to pull him into the past he so desperately wanted to forget. But still, it was there, tugging stronger and stronger with each passing moment.

The man lifted his gun-

Dan twisted, shoving Phil out of the way, lifting his own-

The two shots rang out in such quick succession Dan wasn’t sure who’d shot first-

The man crumpled-

Phil yelped.

All-too-familiar panic surged over Dan, even as blood began pooling around the strange man.

He whirled to see Phil curled up on the ground.

“Phil!”

He’d been shot, hadn’t he- he’d gotten hit despite Dan’s efforts- he’d failed _again_ to keep someone he cared about safe-

Phil uncurled, peeking up at Dan. “I’m alright.”

Dan was having none of that. Phil would say that even if he were actively bleeding out, as long as he thought it would reassure him.

He grabbed Phil’s arm and hauled him up, rapidly searching for any injuries, any nicks, anything at all.

Phil frowned and grabbed Dan’s wrists, then pulled the gun from Dan’s hand before allowing Dan to continue his frantic patting. “I’m fine, I promise. Smaller targets are harder to hit. You mentioned that before.”

Dan’s curse echoed down the street. “You almost died, Phil!”

“I promise. I’m alright. No injuries. Nothing.” Still, Phil held himself in such a way Dan could continue searching him for injuries if he so desired.

Dan instead gave a cry of clear frustration and took his gun back, shoving it back in its place in his coat pocket. “Don’t ever do that again, Lester! I thought I’d lost you, and I-” His breathing caught. “I thought I lost you, just like Tyler, like Anthony, like-” Dan’s breathing caught once again, and he crumpled to the ground.

Phil crouched next to him, but didn’t dare touch him. Not when Dan had the gun back in his possession, not when he was trapped in the past.

“I’m alright,” Phil said calmly. “That happened in the war, Dan. It’s been over for four years. You don’t have to worry about that anymore, alright?”

Dan’s eyes were distant as they sat there on the dreadfully cold ground, shuddering from more than the cold, and he muttered to himself for several minutes before his head shot up and he grabbed Phil’s wrist.

Phil squeaked despite himself.

“I- I- I can’t lose anyone else, Phil, please don’t make me lose anyone else.”

Phil patted Dan’s shoulder with his free hand. Now that Dan had touched him, he was free to reciprocate. (That had taken some learning.) “That’s why we’re a team, remember? That’s why we work together. You saved me. That was you.”

Dan’s only response was a sob and a tightened grip on Phil.

Phil slowly stood, dragging Dan to his feet with him. “Come on, let’s get you home. You’ll feel better there.”

As soon as Dan was deposited in his room and Phil had his coat—at this point neither of them cared if Dan slept in the rest of his clothes, but Phil wasn’t touching him more than he needed to—Phil dropped Dan’s coat in his own room and carefully checked all the windows. They were locked, as usual, and the string tied to empty cans and bottles was still at each one.

Good. Phil would know if Dan tried opening one.

While passing Dan’s room, Phil glanced inside to see Dan curled up on the bed. That was also good. Dan would feel better after rest. Not great, he never felt anywhere close to normal during winter, but better.

He headed to the kitchen next, quietly checking drawers to ensure all the knives were in their proper places. That done, he set up another of his bottle/can rattling strings on the knife drawers. He didn’t want Dan getting into those while he was asleep, either. Not while Dan was like this.

Finally, he searched the pockets of Dan’s coat until he found Dan’s gun. Quietly, quickly, he unloaded it and stowed the bullets in his dresser drawer. Then he slipped the gun under his bed.

He definitely didn’t want Dan getting to that in the night.

Then, though his body ached from the cold and exhaustion, he made sure he changed into proper sleeping clothes before climbing into bed himself.

And sleep didn’t come.

Phil laid there for quite some time, his ears listening for even the slightest sound to indicate Dan, on the other side of the wall, was awake. Or that he was having another of his nightmares. Or that he wasn’t sleeping soundly enough to get decent rest.

But finally, despite the tension shrieking through his mind, his body finally succumbed to exhaustion, and he fell into sleep himself.

\-----

The door to Phil’s room slowly creaked open, followed by a shuffling step.

Phil dragged his eyes open, only to see the faintly lit ceiling. Maybe some spiders, he never knew without his glasses on, but nothing big enough to see just after waking.

Another shuffling step, and Phil pushed himself onto an elbow while grabbing for his glasses with his other hand. It had to be early morning now, perhaps 8 or 9, which explained the light filtering through the window curtain.

When he could see, he was—unsurprisingly—faced with an exhausted-looking Dan.

“What’re you doing in my room?” Phil was pretty sure he knew, but he wanted to make sure.

“I need my gun.” Dan’s words were tense, slurred by weariness.

“Why do you need your gun?”

“It’s not safe...” Dan rubbed at his face.

“Dan,” Phil sighed, “everything’s locked. It’s safe. You’re okay.”

“...It’s not-” Dan started again, though clearly more unsure this time.

Phil made a face. “You know why I hid the gun, Dan.”

Dan stood in silence, his eyes nearly drifting closed. Clearly, he hadn’t gotten much in the way of sleep--granted, neither had Phil.

“Please,” Phil added, “go back to sleep. It’ll make more sense when you wake up again.”

Dan slowly nodded. “If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure.” Phil said calmingly. “It’s safe. I’ll let you know if it’s not.”

Dan nodded again before stumbling out of Phil’s room.

Phil sighed and dropped back onto his pillow. He was so tired, but... he needed to make sure Dan got to sleep.

Groaning slightly, he rolled out of bed. Instantly, the cold air hit him, and he took a sharp breath despite himself. He needed to turn on heat, or he and Dan would freeze to death.

If only heating their small apartment wasn't so expensive.

Phil made a face as he went to do the thing. Their first apartment had been smaller, better suited for their needs. Just four rooms, making for less overall space to heat. The single bedroom had forced them to share, but two bodies on the then-improvised beds of mattresses on the floor had made said room warmer.

Not that it mattered now. They'd had to move after the neighbors had started yelling at Dan after Phil had talked him down from the outside ledge.

It would be alright. With Chris here, they'd have a third paycheck. Money wouldn't be so tight. (Granted, it would also have been less bad if they'd been smarter during that poker game of Kjellberg's, but there was nothing they could do about that now, either.)

Slowly, the frigid air began to warm, and Phil nodded to himself before checking on Dan again.

Dan was on his bed, at least, once again curled up in a blanket. Despite that, he shivered and shuddered slightly.

Phil frowned, but quietly crept around to see if Dan really was asleep already. He'd been tired enough, but Phil never knew for sure.

Sure enough, Dan's eyes were closed. His face was clearly contorted in some agony unknown to Phil, but he was asleep.

For now, at least.

Phil let out a breath of relief, then once again made his way back to his room. He had to be up at noon to meet Chris in time, but that still gave him a few more hours to sleep.

\-----

It was nice to feel insignificant every now and then, Dan observed. The ocean stretched into what seemed like infinity—it had certainly felt like it when he and Phil had crossed it to immigrate to America—before meeting the equally infinite blue of the horizon.

He could almost forget, staring at that.

He knew Chris would be meeting them in just a few minutes, that their childhood friend would get to see the mess Dan had become, but he was trying not to think about it.

He'd agreed to this, after all.

He'd agreed to revealing what a mess he was, to the inevitable exclaims of concern, to well-intentioned but badly-done gestures of kindness, to upsetting his already unstable life to help someone he hadn't seen in almost a decade.

Dan quietly muttered a curse, directing it at himself. What an idiot he was, for thinking this would go well for him. He'd be lucky if he didn't end up institutionalized by the end of the week.

Phil took a deep breath, huddling deeper into his coat. The smell of smoke and ash lingered on it, a reminder of the story he and Dan had been chasing for weeks now.

Hopefully whoever was blowing up and burning buildings wasn't going to turn their skills on the city as a whole. Not with the massive damage done to the last abandoned warehouse.

Not when Dan had frowned and mentioned things could get bigger.

Phil pushed the thought aside. This was not the time for those thoughts, he was on the lookout for Chris. Not that he had much more than a current description and old memories to work off of.

And once he found him, he needed to tell him what he couldn't ever do around Dan, or to him, or of any sort of thing.

It would be a rough period on all three of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The picture used for the article is this:  
> http://www.maggieblanck.com/Hoboken/ImagesH10/PierFireH072710a.jpg


	46. Derailment and Detention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>   
>  Today's tunes:  
> Wise One- John Coltrane Quartet

“You can stop swearing, you know.” JP glanced at Wade as the latter peeked around the corner. “It’s not going to change anything.”

“Look, it’s a bad idea to be doing this so early,” Wade shot back. “We’ve talked about this.”

JP rolled his eyes. They had indeed talked about it, several times. They’d had to change their bootlegging schedule and routes thanks to the attempted hit on Wade and Molly months before. Normally, it wasn’t so bad. Molly came with them, provided another pair of eyes and ears, and they got to use the automobile for most of the work.

But Molly had gone off to Minx and Krism’s Greenhouse. She hadn’t told JP why, but Brycelyn had mentioned it was probably about the woman the two of them had kidnapped a week ago.

Maybe Molly just didn’t want someone to be alone on Thanksgiving.

Or, since that lady was the wife of Detective Patrick, she wanted to see if she could get any information from her.

Either way, she wasn’t here, which left JP and Wade with the nigh-impossible task of getting the night’s shipment of alcohol to Freddy’s without an automobile—and without being spotted. Fortunately, they’d been preparing for the day by bringing a bit more over the past week or so, which meant there was just one last barrel today.

That didn’t make it any less difficult to carry a barrel through the streets of Boston while it was still light out.

JP glanced at the sky, even as Wade gestured that the coast was clear. It was getting closer to nightfall.

They still had three miles to go.

JP made a face. The life of a criminal was hard.

\-----

Gar couldn’t say he’d learned a lot from his week spent on the streets as Bob’s temporary partner. He learned some things, sure; but most of it he’d picked up Halloween night.

“I’m sure you’re more than ready to go back to working with MatPat tomorrow,” Bob said casually.

“It will be more familiar.”

Bob just nodded. He didn’t seem offended at the words. Then he paused and glanced over at Gar.

“I’m sorry about what Drake did to you.”

Gar blinked and looked back over. “What?”

Bob shrugged a shoulder. “I feel responsible, considering he was my partner and all.” He grimaced. “I feel like I should have stopped him, or known it was coming.”

“I don’t think anyone knew it was coming.” Gar had been expecting  _ something  _ to happen after he threatened Drake into silence, but he hadn’t been expecting the chokehold. Or the gun to his head. Or the argument with MatPat right before.

“A lot of unexpected things have been happening recently.”

“Yeah.” MatPat still hadn’t found any clues as to where Steph could be, or even anything concrete about who, exactly, had taken her. He’d barely even spoken to Gar when their paths had crossed, he was so focused on trying to find her.

Gar had his suspicions, and he was sure MatPat did too—but until they had proof, they couldn’t do a thing.

Not legally, anyway.

\-----

Wade saw the cops step around the corner just a second before they saw him and JP and their barrel of alcohol, but it was far too late to do anything. And he didn’t recognize either of them, so there was no chance of talking their way out of this one.

“What’s that?” the first asked, gesturing to the barrel.

JP remained silent, but tensed, ready to move.

The pair of bulls glanced at each other, then took a rather coordinated step towards them.

“What’s in the barrel?” the second asked, tone much more serious now.

“Wade-” JP’s whisper was painfully soft, painfully scared, and full of a desperate plea to know their plan.

Wade didn’t have a plan. They were never supposed to get caught in the first place.

The bulls reached them, and one reached forward and gave the barrel a hefty shove.

And Wade? Wade threw the barrel forward, pitching it into the cops. The sound of splintering wood and the unmistakable smell of alcohol filled the air as Wade grabbed JP’s wrist and ran.

“Where are going?!” JP glanced over his shoulder and yelped. “They’ve got guns!”

Wade yanked them into the closest alley, the force of the sudden turn slamming him into the wall. “Just keep running!”

“But where-”

The familiar sound of a gunshot sounded, and the brick wall next to Wade exploded in a shower of dust and shards and grout.

JP screamed.

\-----

Gar and Bob froze at the sound of the shot echoing through the streets, even as several civilians screamed and scrambled for the safety indoors.

They glanced at each other, then darted in the direction of the gunshot.

\-----

Wade hauled JP around the corner out of the alley, only to be forced to let go of the teen’s wrist or else send them both into a bone-chillingly familiar set of people. As it was, he still ran headlong into one of them.

Gar ducked, barely avoiding getting hit by a stray arm.

Bob, however, yelped and went tumbling, limbs getting entangled in the person who’d just bodily slammed into him.

Gar and JP’s eyes met, just for a second, before Wade’s voice broke the shocked silence.

“Run!”

JP yelped and took off.

\-----

Another pair of cops darted out of the alley Wade and JP had emerged from.

“Don’t just stand there! Help!” one of the others demanded. They darted to Wade and started pinning him. “Get the boy!”

Oh, if only Gar was alone, if only he could look the other way and pretend he’d never seen the two Orchids.

But he couldn’t.

So he turned and darted after JP.

\-----

Hands roughly pulled Wade off Bob, even as Bob’s surprised expression flicked into one of horror and then into something completely devoid of emotion.

JP—Wade had to make time for JP to get away. His fate was sealed now: he’d been caught, and he couldn’t outfight three bulls. 

Not that they knew that, though.

So Wade struggled. He struggled and threw punches (a good number of them met their mark) until his face was slammed into the sidewalk and his arms pulled far too tightly across his back, knees pinning his legs and back.

“Stop struggling, bootlegger.” He didn’t know which of the cops had said that. “It’s damn useless. You’ve sealed your fate.”

He just hoped JP was able to get away.

\-----

A hand closed down on JP’s wrist, and he screamed and twisted, sending both him and whoever had grabbed him tumbling. They both grunted at the impact, then the person spoke.

“Shut up before you attract attention.” 

He knew that voice.

JP pushed himself to his feet, staring at Gar with wide eyes.

“I- I’m not going with you.” He swallowed. “If- if you try to make me, I’ll tell them about you.”

Gar scowled at him, brushing off the sleeve of his coat. “Don’t make life more difficult than it already is. I have no intentions of handing you over.”

A wave of relief washed over JP. “Really?”

Gar shook his head. “As long as you keep your mouth shut, that is.” His gaze bore unwaveringly into JP, and the Orchid got the feeling Gar could quite easily make JP regret ever even thinking about revealing him.

“Well... okay.” JP took a deep breath. “What’s it like, by the way?” He wouldn’t think about what had happened to Wade. He wouldn’t.

Gar frowned. “Not the time.”

JP swallowed. He didn’t have anything else to think about now, though. “What about-”

“He’s already been arrested. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

Oh.

\-----

“Bluemoon!” The voice of one of the original two bulls echoed through the alley, and Gar glanced towards the entrance. “Where are you?”

“And you’re not going to arrest me?” JP squeaked.

Gar shook his head. “Not if you hit me hard enough and get out of here before he arrives.” Hopefully JP would understand what he was trying to say.

It took a moment, but understanding dawned on JP’s face, and he nodded.

That done, Gar lunged for JP, deliberately coming within inches of actually grabbing him.

“No!” JP shouted, his tone rather convincing, before grabbing Gar by the coat and  _ slamming _ him into the wall.

Gar sank to the ground, wheezing. He’d been expecting it, but it had still hurt more than he’d planned. Not that that was surprising: JP was frantic, and quite possibly didn’t know his own strength.

“Bluemoon!” Footsteps hurried up to him, and then hands were pulling him up off the ground. “Are you alright?”

Gar put an arm around his rib (it hadn’t been hurt further, fortunately) and uttered a fake groan. “I’ll live.”

“Where’s the kid?” Good. JP had gotten away, and without being seen again.

Gar shook his head, taking a moment to fake pained breathing. “Lost him when he slammed me into the wall.”

A pause. “Well, we caught one of them. Let’s get you checked out. Detective Patrick will have my head if you’re badly hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” Gar assured, though he made sure to wince as they started walking out of the alley.

Just so long as JP didn’t stop running.

\-----

JP didn’t stop running. Not for a long time; not until darkness had fallen, and the streets had gotten much quieter.

To his surprise, he found himself near Freddy’s. Mark would know something was wrong, since he and Wade hadn’t showed up yet, but-

JP bit his lip, then glanced around to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He darted through the shadows until he got to the alley. A quick rap on the back entrance and a muttered password later, he was inside. 

Almost instantly, Mark was there, and JP couldn’t help it. He fell forwards, crashing into Mark with a sob.

Wade had been arrested, and there was nothing JP had been able to do to stop it.


	47. Holding Out Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
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> I’m A Fool To Want You- Dexter Gordon

Mark did his best to ignore the whispers and stares as he was escorted down the prison hall. He wasn’t here as a prisoner, after all. He was here to visit one.

“Don’t pass anything through the bars,” the guard intoned blandly, coming to a stop. “Scream if he attacks you.”

Mark nodded, slowly moving forward still, eyes searching the cells in the hall ahead of him. Just about everyone moved to the front of their cells, but none were familiar.

Finally, at the end of the hall, Mark came to a stop.

Wade looked up, then jumped to his feet and grinned, and Mark almost took a step backwards.

“You look awful.” Mark broke the silence, eyes lingering on Wade’s bruised knuckles, his swollen lip, the cuts on his face—half of which weren’t even scabbed over. In fact, they looked painfully fresh.

“I feel awful.” Wade rubbed the back of his head. “I haven’t even been here a full two days and I’ve been jumped six or seven times already. I’ve noticed people don’t like me too much.”

Mark frowned, taking a step closer to the bars. He didn’t want to make the guard think he was handing anything over, but this distance was far too impersonal.

“So, uh,” Wade continued, “how’d you find out about me getting in here?”

“JP passed it on.”

Relief washed over Wade’s face, and he sagged against the bars of his cell. “He’s okay, then?”

Mark nodded. “A lot better off than you are.”

Wade smiled weakly. “Good. He wouldn’t last here.”

A pause, where Mark was trying to figure out what to say to Wade to reassure him. He couldn’t say things would be alright; they didn’t even know for sure how long Wade was supposed to be in here, much less if he would survive his stay.

“...is Molly okay?” Wade glanced back up, the worry clear on his face.

Mark took a deep breath. “Nothing’s happened to her, though JP spent the night at my place. She was scaring him.”

Wade let out a long, shaky breath. “Oh.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if thinking. “Can you... can you check on her for me?”

“Of course.” Mark blinked. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t want to get your brother in trouble.”

Mark frowned. Tom’s reputation. That was the entire reason he wasn’t any closer to the bars; why he was keeping his hands behind his back; why he wasn’t saying anything that could incriminate him, or put pressure on Tom.

“I’m still going to see her, Wade. You should worry about yourself, instead. Are you going to be alright?” Mark finally asked, Wade’s injuries once again attracting his gaze. How many more were hidden from sight?

Wade shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Wade-”

Wade gave him a sharp look. “I’ve survived this long. I’ll keep doing surviving. Most people won’t bother me. Mir’s gotten them scared of mobs, and, well...” Wade shrugged.

“Mir?” What was the leader of the Russian mob doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be in a different prison?

“You didn’t see the Bumblers’ article on his transfer here?” Wade shook his head. “He’s already got the entire place under his control. The guards won’t even touch him.” Wade hesitated, then plowed on ahead. “Not many will talk to me, but those who will have mentioned how much Mir wants ‘a particular judge’ dead.”

The way Wade’s eyes met Mark’s, the urgent pleading in his voice—it sent a chill down Mark’s spine. “Good thing he’s in here for years still, then.”

Wade grimaced. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. He’s angry about being put in prison. It doesn’t matter how long he’s here; he’s going to find some way to do what he wants.” Wade swallowed. “I don’t know how true the rumours are, but they say he was the one who arranged the sniper during the commemoration.”

Mark’s blood ran cold, and this time he was swallowing against the sudden dryness in his mouth.

Wade’s eyes flicked to something behind Mark, and he pulled away from the cell bars. “Take care, old friend. I’m sorry things turned out this way.”

Mark glanced over his shoulder to see the guard within definite earshot, and nodded. “Perhaps the future can be different.”

“We can hope.” 

And, as Mark was escorted away, Wade quietly repeated the words to himself once again. Here, hope was all he had.

\-----

Mark stared up at the old courthouse. It had been standing for decades, and would likely continue standing long after Mark was gone. The building was absolutely gorgeous: all white brick and blue shingles. In the strong light of early afternoon, it practically sparkled. He could still recall the first time he laid eyes on it…

_ “You mean you’re gonna be working here?!” a much younger Mark exclaimed, gawking up at Suffolk County Courthouse with his brother by his side. _

_ Tom had chuckled in a mixture of amusement and bashfulness at Mark’s shock, rubbing the back of his neck. There was pride in his stance too, though. It was well deserved. _

_ “Yeah. My office is here, and so’s the courtroom I’ll be presiding over. It’s… a little excessive, really…” _

_ “Are you kidding?! This is amazing! I can hardly believe it, Tom. Dad would be… he’d be proud.” Mark turned to his brother with a softer expression. He was proud too, of course, but he knew Tom would appreciate the sentiment about their father more. _

_ The older Fischbach bore a gentle smile at that, dropping his gaze to the cobblestones. Mark recognized that contemplative nostalgia all too well. _

_ “Yeah… yeah, I suppose he would….” _

_ Mark reached over to squeeze at Tom’s shoulder and offered him a comforting smile. “It’s okay. I miss him too.” _

_ Were it not considered so taboo in public, Mark would have dragged Tom into the tightest hug he could muster. Instead, they were forced to settle for a few back pats and then a tour of the building. _

Mark had been inside the courthouse plenty since then. Unlike most, it was not as a criminal, but merely a visitor. Their mother or Dee would often ask him to run Tom something, or to pass along an important message. Occasionally, back when they were closer, Mark would stop by around lunch just to chat and catch up on how the job was going. Tom had been no less stressed—but he had been happier back then.

Mark had to wonder if he’d been happier too.

He shook his head. This wasn’t about him. Or Tom, really; though he planned to pass along Wade’s warning about Mir anyway. No, this was about Wade, and making certain his childhood friend lived to see the outside world again. Maybe Tom couldn’t release Wade, but surely there was  _ something  _ he could do. A transfer, even. Anything.

Mark wouldn’t know unless he tried. He sucked in a deep breath, put on the most confident stance he could dredge up, and headed into the building.

He had no problems with security or the secretaries. They all knew him by face, and by name. Most of them were too busy to spare him more than a glance, but he greeted those who called out to him or waved. It helped to ease his tension a little.

Nonetheless, by the time he was standing in front of Tom’s door, he was nearly sweating bullets. Mark swallowed hard.

It was fine. Tom should be on lunch right now. They had time to talk. He had time.

Anxiously, Mark knocked, praying his assumptions weren’t wrong. What if Tom  _ was  _ working? What if he was currently in one of the courtrooms? What if his boss had invited him out for lunch? There were a plethora of reasons Mark could be wasting precious time, and he gnawed on his lip, second guessing himself. Maybe he should have checked in with one of those secretaries-

The door opened, revealing a very tired Tom in a suit so starched it looked like it could beat him in a standing contest. His complexion was a bit grey and there were heavy bags under his eyes. Mark suspected the only reasons his hair and clothes were so composed were the dress code and his boss. Carpett wouldn’t stand for sloppy or disheveled appearances.

“Tom. Hey.,” Mark forced out a little belatedly. He’d been so busy taking in the state of his brother that he had completely forgotten to greet him.

Tom, to his credit, didn’t have the energy to scold Mark for so blatantly staring. His next exhale was basically a sigh. “Hello, Mark. I wasn’t expecting you. Did mom send you for something again? You could have just left it with a secretary…”

“No, I’m here for a visit. I need to talk to you about something.” Mark was quick to correct his brother, not wanting to give him the wrong idea.

That set Tom’s brow to furrowing. Some of the casualness in his stance evaporated at Mark’s serious tone.

“...Listen, Mark, unless it’s something  _ very important… _ ”

Mark took a determined step forward. He knew his brother was exhausted, but he wouldn’t be deterred. Wade was counting on him.

“It  _ is  _ important, Tom. Please. I won’t be long.” He locked eyes with his brother, brown on brown, expression imploring. He didn’t want to, but he would pull out the pout if he had to. Tom could never refuse the pout.

Tom stared at him with a withering look, but eventually caved. His reserves must be even lower than they looked. Grudgingly, he stepped aside, granting Mark entrance into the well put together office. “Come in, then. But  _ quick,  _ please. I’m very busy…”

“Have you even taken your lunch break yet?” Mark couldn’t help but ask as he stepped into the room. It wasn’t exactly  _ luxurious,  _ but anyone could tell Tom was a little higher on the food chain than a normal servant of the government. Carved oak desk, plush chairs, a large cabinet, and a bookcase stuffed near to bursting with books and files alike. An exquisite rug covered a majority of the hardwood floor. In the corner behind Tom’s desk was an open window. Said desk was covered with so many papers and files its surface couldn’t even be seen, and Mark winced at the sight.

“No, not yet. I was hoping to get to it soon…” Tom dragged fingers through his hair with another ragged sigh. He slumped visibly now that they were behind closed doors, shuffling around the desk to half-collapse into his chair. He began organizing some of the papers as he spoke, gesturing for Mark to take a seat. “So what is it? You haven’t come all the way to my office in such a long time….”

Mark felt a stab of guilt, even if he knew Tom wasn’t calling him out. Moving to claim one of two chairs in front of the desk, he folded his hands in his lap and focused his gaze there. “Sorry, I’ve been… busy. I’m sure you understand.” Well, it wasn’t a lie, though it wasn’t exactly the  _ reason  _ Mark had stopped visiting either.

Tom hummed his acknowledgment, looking over some of the papers he held.

Mark chewed at his lip a moment before speaking again. “You’re not… pushing yourself too hard, are you Tom?”

That made Tom pause, glancing up at Mark over the rims of his spectacles. He was nonplussed. “This, coming from the man who collapsed from nearly working himself to death.” His deadpan was so strong it almost made Mark flinch at the subtle accusation.

“I mean- exactly! You were telling me off for working too hard, so… don’t be a hypocrite. Okay? That’s all I’m saying. I don’t want  _ you  _ collapsing either.”

Tom didn’t look amused in the least at Mark’s mothering, but again, he was too exhausted to argue. He gave a little shrug of his shoulders and looked back to his work.

“I’ll try.”

Mark wanted to push the issue, but he bit his tongue. He knew if their positions were reversed, he would have said exactly the same thing- he  _ had,  _ in fact; on several occasions. He had no room to ask Tom for anymore. Besides, there were more dire topics to worry about. Tom apparently recalled this as well.

“Please tell me the “important thing” wasn’t just you checking in on my health.”

“No. It’s…” Mark dragged a tight breath in through his teeth, running a hand through his own hair. “...I visited Wade today.”

Tom made another noise of acknowledgment, but then recalled the weight of Mark’s statement, his fingers tightened on the papers he was holding.

“...in prison.” Mark felt the need to tack it on; to remind Tom of exactly where Wade had ended up.

Tom sighed heavily, setting the papers down. He removed his glasses and set them down on the desk as well, redirecting his bared eyes to Mark.

“I’m aware.” He folded his hands neatly on his desk. “I gave him the sentence.”

Mark’s brain wasn’t capable of registering the confession at first. He had to replay it several times in his head before it stuck, and then he didn’t hesitate to gawk accusingly at his brother. 

“You-”

“Yes, Mark: me.” Tom’s voice was edged with agitation from his exhaustion. Clearly, he knew Mark was going to react like this. “In case you’ve forgotten, it’s my job to sentence criminals-”

“But it’s  _ Wade,  _ Tom! So he was carrying around some alcohol. That’s a stupid law anyway-”

**_“Mark.”_ ** Tom pressed his hands to his desk, raising himself up some to stare his brother down, brown eyes flashing with a silent warning. “Prohibition is the law. It’s a serious crime, no matter what you or anyone else thinks. And ignoring its existence, be it bootlegging or running a speakeasy, is  _ breaking the law.  _ I can’t show favoritism.” No, there were enough politicians stooping to such a low.

Mark felt his insides crush together as if they’d been shoved into a compactor. He tried to internalize his reaction, not wanting to tip Tom off to anything. Still, his own eyes flashed, and he shifted his grip to the arms of the chair. “So if it was me caught lugging around a barrel of booze? You’d put me away, just like that? Not even caring what could happen to me?”

Tom was struck by that. He physically flinched, wilting for a brief moment at the dilemma Mark had cruelly presented him with. However, he recovered, forcing himself back up until he was standing, looking down on Mark. It was a power play, even if neither brother would admit to it.

“If you broke the law, it would be my duty to punish you to the full extent of it.” His tone was harsh and cold, though it sounded painful to say.

Some of the color drained from Mark’s face. Well, it was good his suspicions and paranoia were finally confirmed, he supposed. Silently, he sank back into his own seat, staring at the floor. He didn’t even know what to say.

There was regret and uncertainty written all over Tom’s face. Still, he swallowed down the bitter pill he’d chosen and reclaimed his seat at the desk. There was no taking it back, and part of him didn’t want to. Unfortunately, this wasn’t just a job. This was his morals and beliefs. The people trusted him to be fair and just in his judgments and to let  _ anyone  _ off the hook would be betraying that trust. Including his own flesh and blood. If only Mark could understand.

“If you were only here to tell me about Wade…”

Mark managed to find his voice again at that, clearing his throat. He sat up a bit straighter in his seat and tried to get back on task.

“I am. But it’s not just the fact he’s in prison. Tom, he’s dying in there.”

Tom gave another heavy sigh and put his glasses back on, picking up the papers he’d been looking over. “Mark, Charlestown is a perfectly decent prison. The guards there aren’t going to hurt him and the food is fine-”

“I’m not worried about the guards or his meals, Tom. The  _ other prisoners  _ are trying to kill him!” Mark felt a spark of irritation and anger at how nonchalant Tom was being about this. “You should have seen him in there today.  _ Today.  _ It’s barely been two days, Tom! He looks like he just went through a mugging on the streets. Maybe worse!”

Tom frowned and furrowed his brow, only sparing Mark a curious glance.

“Mark. You have a tendency to exaggerate, and I know you’re close to Wade and all… but he did obtain some injuries while being detained by the police. He resisted arrest-”

“It was more than a few scrapes and bruises, Tom! He told me himself he’d gotten into half a dozen fights. That is  _ not normal,  _ even in a prison. He’s being targeted.”

Tom scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a bootlegger. They don’t have any reason to target him, beyond maybe being a newer inmate. It’s a test. They’ll stop in another day or two when more inmates come in.”

“He’s not-” Mark choked so violently on his own quickly suppressed words Tom actually sent him a concerned look.

Tom thought Wade was just a bootlegger. He didn’t know what speakeasy he was delivering the booze to, nor did he know about Wade’s connection to the Orchids. He was too hard on organized crime; if he knew, he definitely would have added weight to Wade’s sentence. Mark couldn’t allow himself to throw his friend under the bus.

“He’s… it’s Mir, Tom.”

That got far more of a reaction out of his brother.

“Charles Mir? The Russian mob leader?” He reiterated the words slowly, making sure he heard right and Mark understood what he’d just claimed. At Mark’s nod, his lips twisted with blatant disbelief. “Mir has no power behind bars. Even if he did, he doesn’t have any more reason to attack Wade than the rest of them.”

“He’s a  _ family friend,  _ Tom. Maybe he thinks he can get under our skin if he beats the crap out of him. Maybe he’s trying to send some kind of message.” Sometimes, Tom’s near-blind faith in the system scared him.

“Mark, Mir can’t do  _ anything.  _ He’s behind bars, and he isn’t being released for some time. Even when he is, he’ll have nothing to return to. Without him, the Russian mob’s surely dissolved. There’s too many other gangs in this city for them to survive….”

“You don’t  _ know that. _ ”

“I am not scared of a man who’s already been beaten by the system and put away, Mark. Mir may be a hawk, but his wings have been clipped. He’s no longer a threat, in or out of prison.”

“He still has talons.”

“What?”

Mark shook his head. “Your analogy. He  _ is  _ a hawk, Tom. And even if you clip his wings, he has the claws to kill. First it’ll be Wade in prison, and then when he gets out, he’ll come after you next-”

“You’re being paranoid-”

“No, _ you’re _ being stubborn!” Mark huffed, attempting to tamp down on his rising aggravation. Getting into a shouting match in the courthouse was a terrible idea. “While I was visiting Wade, he told me about a rumor he’d heard. About Mir.” When Tom didn’t react beyond a skeptical stare, Mark pressed on. “He said… he said the other prisoners claimed Mir was behind the assassination attempt. At the commemoration. The sniper?” Not the one who shot the dead one, obviously, but the person who had likely been making an attempt on Tom’s life.

Tom paled considerably at the memory. Near death experiences were difficult to forget. He quickly put his papers down when he realized his tight grip was crumpling the edges and swallowed hard.

“That’s… it’s just fear mongering.”

“No, Tom, it’s not. I think it’s true. You went too far with Mir; you pissed off too many powerful people. He’s not just another criminal. You need to take this threat seriously…” Mark tried to make his concern shine through. While he hated seeing Tom so shaken, it was a good way to provide a wake up call.

Tom released the breath he’d been holding. If there were two things he’d learned how to do in his life, it was pull himself back together and then  _ keep  _ himself together. In the courtroom, it was a necessity. On the battlefield, it had been life or death.

“I won’t be scared into silence or inaction,” Tom said. “I had an opportunity to lock away one of Boston’s biggest threats, and I took it. I don’t regret it. He still has several years behind bars, his rage will die out by then and anything he has left will be long gone.”

Mark scowled; it was his turn to be skeptical. “He’s already been transferred from a more secure prison, Tom. Do you really think he won’t get them to give him even more concessions?”

“That was… I can’t control what the senators do, it was a personal request-” Tom was looking more and more discomfit. He could take on death threats without batting an eyelash, but when it came to the corruption he spied on a daily basis it was like a kick to the gut.

“Well  _ this  _ is a personal request. If you can’t lighten Wade’s sentence or get him some kind of protection, then transfer  _ him.  _ Please. Even if I’m wrong about Mir, Wade  _ is  _ getting beaten half to death in that prison. If you just let it go, his fiancee will be getting a letter about his passing soon. And I’ll be attending a funeral instead of a visitation.” The pain on Mark’s face wasn’t fabricated or played up for sympathy; it was genuine. “Please, Tom. I can’t lose one of my best friends. Not like this. You’re the only one I know who can do something about this. Trust me, I wouldn’t put you in this position otherwise.”

Tom watched Mark for several long moments. While his face was still tense, his own worry was beginning to seep through. He knew Mark wouldn’t lie just to make things easier for Wade. He knew how much of a risk interfering would be for Tom. Tom had never wanted Wade to get  _ hurt.  _ He simply had to pay for his crime. That was the law. Tom’s stomach twisted into knots, and he dragged fingers through his hair again.

“I… maybe, I could do something-”

“Absolutely not.”

Both brothers’ heads snapped up at the interruption, turning towards the door. They hadn’t even heard it open, but there stood Chief Justice Carpett in all of his prim and proper glory, hands clasped firmly behind his back. The expression on his face was calm and collected, but the distaste was clear in his eyes. Disapproval rolled off of him in waves while he stepped further into the room.

Tom immediately became flustered, brown eyes widening. He straightened in his chair.

“Sir-”

“Fischbach. Tell me I misheard you on my way past your office. You were  _ not  _ about to grant Mr. Barnes the privilege of a transfer merely a day after his sentencing.”

Tom resisted the powerful urge to drop his gaze. It would be a sign of weakness; cowardice. Carpett hated that.

“I…”

“He was about to help a friend who’s going to  _ die  _ in that prison if something doesn’t happen,” Mark cut in, ignoring how any remaining color drained from Tom’s face at his gall. He turned in his seat to fully face Carpett, matching his harsh stare.

Carpett scoffed, straightening even more, as if he needed that extra boost of height over a man already sitting down.

“The law does not show favoritism-”

“Bull,” Mark snapped.

_ “Mark,”  _ Tom hissed, absolutely horrified.

Mark ignored him. “If you really were just passing by, then you missed the part of our conversation where I mentioned Mir had been transferred- but, then again, it was in all the papers. And as the  _ Chief Justice,  _ I’m sure you knew before anyone.” He crossed his arms over his chest, bristling. Tom looked liable to keel right over at any second.

Carpett’s look was poisonous, but in the subtle way crafted after decades of debating with men higher on the metaphorical totem pole than Mark could ever hope to be. “Charles Mir has been imprisoned for far longer than Mr. Barnes, and put in a special request for transfer to a prison closer to Boston. For visitation purposes. Every step followed the law to the letter.”

Mark scoffed then at Carpett’s claim, rolling his eyes. ‘Visitation purposes;’ what a reach. “He’s also one of the biggest mob bosses in Boston, and has so many crimes under his belt he could probably use a law book as a personal checklist. Wade’s only charge is bootlegging. What’s wrong with moving  _ him  _ to another prison?  _ For his own safety? _ ”

“Well, perhaps when Mr. Barnes files for a transfer like everyone else, this courthouse will take his request into consideration. Until then, he’ll be at Charlestown and in the secure hands of some of Boston’s finest. Unless his actions warrant defensive protocol or he’s supplied a death sentence, he won’t be dying on their watch, Mr. Fischbach.”

Mark’s blood was boiling. Carpett was sickeningly smug where he stood over him; silently lording his position and all the power and authority that came with it. “The cat that caught the canary” wasn’t a strong enough analogy. He wanted nothing more than to personally wipe that perfectly subtle smirk off his face. However, Tom was sitting stock still just a few feet away, still watching in mortification. Mark wasn’t even sure if he’d breathed throughout the duration of his conversation with Carpett. His insides clenched.

He couldn’t do this to Tom. Tom had worked too hard to get to where he was for Mark to ruin it for him. He wouldn’t. He  _ couldn’t.  _ Much as it absolutely infuriated him, Mark backed down from Carpett’s silent challenge. Yet he couldn’t help but turn back to Tom, his expression once more pleading. “Tom. You  _ know  _ this is wrong.”

Tom finally moved, blinking and startling in his chair. He drew in a breath, mulling over Mark’s words while doing his best not to fidget. Mark was right. Part of Tom knew this situation was wrong; that Carpett’s logic and decision was flawed. So many times, he’d been forced to swallow down his feelings for his morals. For the law. For his job. Never before had it been so  _ hard.  _ He knew sentencing Wade would create his most difficult conflict of interests yet, but he hadn’t anticipated it to blow up so badly. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find the words, but Carpett beat him to it.

“Your brother knows the law, Mr. Fischbach. I’d suggest you follow in his footsteps, lest it’s you being put behind bars next.” Whatever Tom had been trying to say, Carpett’s statement silenced it. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Mark.

Would their father still be proud of him, like this?

Mark had finally been struck by Carpett’s words. He pursed his lips tightly and rose stiffly to his feet. Obviously, arguing further would prove pointless. Carpett had Tom under his thumb and would never let him help. Mark would have to figure out something else. Rather than say his goodbyes, he skipped straight to skirting past Carpett out of the office. He had nothing to say to the man, and he wouldn’t make things any harder for Tom. No, he’d just come up with a solution himself.

_ “Fischbach, we need to talk.” _

_ “Of course, sir.” _

\-----

Mark found Molly at her and Wade’s home—their actual home, not the address the government had on record. JP had let him in with a warning that she was upset, and planning something, but Mark wasn’t going to turn away now.

Molly was in the kitchen, standing at the counter. She glanced up from whatever she was doing as Mark stopped in the doorway.

“What do you want.”

Mark winced at the raw tone of her voice, the bluntness of it all.

“I came to see how you were holding up.”

Molly held one of her jars up to the light, and something inside tilted.

“Wade’s in jail, I’ve no way to pay the $1,000 fine he was hit with without putting Orchids out of food and heat for a month, and I won’t see him for half a year.” She shook her head. “How do you think I’m doing?”

Six months. Wade would be spending all of winter in that building, and Mark hadn’t seen more than one blanket in the cell.

“I visited him earlier today.”

Molly’s mouth twisted. “Ah.” She set her jar on the table and picked up another one, placing her hands to unscrew it. “Don’t breathe this. It won’t do anything to you by itself; it just smells awful.”

Mark obediently held his breath as she shook some into the bowl of steaming water on the table and screwed the lid back on.

“So, how was he? I’m surprised they let you visit so early into his sentence.” Molly scowled. “They wouldn’t let me in, at least.”

Mark’s heart ached at that. “I’m worried about him.” Molly was not going to take this news well, he knew that much.

Molly paused and looked up. “Please tell me he’s not already complaining.”

Mark shook his head. “The other prisoners are trying to kill him. Mir’s trying to use him to get at my brother.”

Molly’s entire face tightened, fury and worry flickering across in quick succession, and she stood there for a split second before letting loose a string of curses so strong even Mark blinked.

“How bad is it?”

“He’d already been in at least six fights by this morning. I don’t know how many have happened since then.” Mark swallowed. “He looked bad, Moll.”

Molly’s hands came down on the table with a yell. “They’re going to just  _ let him  _ get  _ beaten _ to death?!”

Mark lifted a shoulder. “He promised he’d make it, but...” He shook his head. “It really was bad. I tried to get him a transfer to somewhere where Mir isn’t, but Carpett is having none of it.”

“He’s the most despised man in Boston for a reason.” Molly flexed her hands, then walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a small bottle. She shook it slightly, then stretched her lips into a bone-chilling smile. “I need you to go before you get caught in a crime—one much more dangerous than running a speakeasy, at least—and there’s nothing left when Wade gets out.”

“What if he doesn’t?” JP asked softly from over Mark’s shoulder.

Mark jumped, glancing to see JP was indeed just standing there.

“Well,” Molly slid the bottle into her dress, “the Italians are the reason he was out and about to get caught at that time anyway. If Wade dies in prison, there won’t be anything left of them.” She turned her attention back to whatever she’d been doing when Mark walked in.

“Molly-” Mark hesitated, then plowed ahead. “Don’t die. Wade’s going to need you when he gets out.”

“Oh, I’m not going to be the one dying.” Molly’s smile was back. “I’ll make sure of that.”


	48. A Turn for the Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>   
>  Today's tunes:  
> That Old Flame- Miles Davis

PJ tried not to give himself very much spare time these days. Spare time led to thinking: thinking about Freddy’s, about Wade’s arrest, about how many of his secrets Jordan had; about what would happen if the godfather found out about Freddy’s, or Jordan going along with it; and about what would happen if the godfather (or any of the  _ capos  _ other than Jordan, really) found out Sophie was very much not Italian. It led to him thinking about Sophie.

And yet, here he was. Sprawled on his bed, staring at his ceiling. Thinking.

His thoughts had woken him, turning his mind restless with the conflict of his life as PJ the bassist and PJ the underboss. He wasn’t even sure what time it was, or how long he’d slept. Light was filtering through curtains into his room, though, so hopefully it wasn’t any sort of morning. Not when he and Jordan had had to stay up to six or so to treat his hands from yet another night of vigorous playing.

Judging by how heavy and dull his body felt, though, he couldn’t have gotten more than a few hours of sleep.

Not that he’d been able to since Sophie left.

PJ groaned and shoved his hands across his face, raking his fingers through his hair.

Why did emotion have to be so complicated?

A soft knock sounded on his door, and PJ resisted the temptation to groan again. He didn’t want to deal with people yet. He wanted to be alone in his misery.

Another knock, and PJ came to a decision. A childish one, perhaps; and certainly something he hadn’t done since he was a child, but he made it all the same.

He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

It only took a few moments of focusing on his breathing, making sure it was appropriately even, making sure his eyes were closed, for him to become incredibly aware that no one would have fallen asleep like this. It was late November, and everything was cold, and he was on top of his covers and not under them.

Maybe whoever was knocking wouldn’t open the door, though. Maybe they’d go away.

The door clicked softly—then the whispering sound of it opening.

“He must be freezing like that,” Yami’s voice said softly. “How exhausted is he to sleep through it?”

“Doesn’t matter.” And that was Zombie. What were those two doing at his door? “We have to let him know.”

Yami sighed. “You wake him. I’ll find him something warmer than these nightclothes.”

Soft footsteps sounded, and then a hand touched PJ's shoulder. It shook him gently, until PJ reluctantly opened his eyes. 

“Sorry, Peej. It's the godfather.”

Instantly, alarm coursed through PJ, and any possibilities of sleep vanished.

“What? Did he-” Had PJ suddenly been plunged into this responsibility?

“He's still here,” Yami said, handing PJ a thicker robe to put over the first, “but he's worse. Weaker. He was cradling Luna a few minutes ago, and he dropped her.”

“She's alright, the fall into his lap didn't hurt her,” Zombie assured, leading the way out the door and across the hall.

PJ just nodded, pulling his robe tighter around himself. If he talked, it was likely to come out as a sob. Why did this have to start happening now?

Not that there was ever a time he wanted it to happen.

Zombie didn’t say anything as he opened the door to the godfather's room, and PJ almost fell at the effort of it. He was still pretty exhausted himself, after all.

_ “They didn’t need to wake you,” _ the godfather murmured, his voice holding all sort of emotions PJ had never heard from him.

_ “What’s done is done.”  _ PJ sat in the chair next to the godfather’s bed.  _ “What happened?” _

_ “I’m certain they’ve already told you.”  _ The godfather sighed, and held his hands up, looking at them.

They were shaking.

As long as the godfather had been sick, he’d never had that happen before.

PJ frowned.  _ “How do you feel, despite that?” _

_ “I’m not leaving you just yet.” _ The godfather smiled reassuringly, lowering his hands back into his lap.  _ “Though...” _ He paused, hesitated.  _ “With this turn of events, I don’t know just how soon you will see your next promotion.” _

A wave of fear and worry swept over PJ, and his fingers tightened on the arm of the chair.

The godfather reached to pat PJ’s knee comfortingly.  _ “You are ready, even if you don’t see it in yourself. Have confidence in yourself, PJ. You know what’s best for the Family.” _

PJ grasped the godfather’s hand in his own before returning it to him with a reassuring squeeze.  _ “I just thought it would be years yet.” _

_ “And I hoped to one day meet the woman who stole your heart.”  _ The godfather made a wistful look.  _ “I don’t know what drove the two of you apart, but it would be better for the both of you if you worked it out. You were happy then.” _

PJ swallowed.  _ “I’ll try.” _ That was a lie. He might never even see Sophie again. She had yet to return to Freddy’s, and he wasn’t about to wait at her house in case she decided to call the police on him.

_ “Confidence, PJ. Confidence.” _ The godfather took a shuddering breath, clearly exhausted from the conversation.  _ “You will need it. A leader doesn’t have time for uncertainty.” _

PJ stood, pulling the covers over the godfather.  _ “Of course.” _

With that, he left the room, glancing once behind him to see the godfather’s eyes drifting closed into sleep.

He took a deep breath and closed the door softly behind him. Yami was nowhere to be seen, but Zombie was leaning against the wall next to the door.

“Just about everyone is decent with those new guns,” Zombie looked up from the ground. “We’re ready to start taking back from those rotten potatoes.”

\-----

“Peej-” Jordan cut himself off, then sighed. “It’s not a good time to go, not with the godfather like this.” 

PJ glanced over his shoulder at Jordan leaning against his closed door, and continued pulling on his coat. 

“PJ, please. What if something happens to you? You’re the only person ready to run the Family, and-” Jordan shook his head. “We can’t survive that.”

“Nothing will happen to me.” PJ adjusted his coat and glanced out the window. He needed to get going, or he’d be late to Freddy’s. As it was, he might be a little bit late.

“You’re an Italian man in the middle of Irish territory there.” Jordan’s eyes flashed. “And no matter what you keep saying, I’m sure I saw that drummer when I was in the mob. You’re in danger every time you go.”

“That is why you’ve been following me, hasn’t it?” PJ scowled at him. 

Jordan crossed his arms. “You need a nap.”

PJ just looked at him incredulously. “What?”

“You’re grumpy. And I get that you’re stressed, I am too, but you’ve never been actually angry about this whole bodyguard thing we’ve got going on until now.” 

PJ let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. He hadn’t gotten any sleep since his thoughts had woken him that morning, instead occupying his day with planning where was best to push mob territory borders (they were starting with a bit of Russian land, while Mir was in prison, and once they had control of the Charles River they’d move on to pushing Irish land) and watching Matthias’ progress learning how to walk on crutches (he was getting decently good at it) and trying desperately to not think about Sophie or how he now had an impending end to his life at Freddy’s.

“I’m not going to have it for much longer, Jordan.” He glanced over his shoulder, but didn’t really bother looking at Jordan specifically. “Once I’m the godfather...” He sighed, trying to squelch the panic welling up in him at the thought. “Well, that would be stupid of me to go. But until then, it’s the only place I can play, it’s the only place I can see my friends.” 

“The Family still needs you now.” Jordan shook his head. “It’s awful, and I’m sorry, but what if I fail? Then we’re down a  _ capo  _ and the underboss.”

“What are the chances I’ll be allowed to wander outside our territory?” PJ turned, glancing at Jordan from the side of his eye. “Once I’m the godfather, I mean. Nobody’s going to let that happen, at least not without an entire squad of people protecting me.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll warn Wilford I’ll be unable to come back soon, but until then...” He met Jordan’s eyes. “Please. Let me leave this part of my life on good terms. I don’t want to leave loose ends that could catch up to me later on.”

Jordan let out a very long breath, then uncrossed his arms and shifted his weight, staring at the ceiling. Finally, he dragged his gaze down to meet PJ’s, and he put his hands on his hips. “We arrive late. We leave early. I will be as armed as Wilford will allow me to be, and if someone so much as mentions any sort of murder, we’re leaving.”

PJ just about crumpled in relief. “I can handle that. Just... make sure Wilford knows about it, and he’ll help you with it.”

Jordan crossed his arms again. “Good. I’ll get my coat.”

\-----

“Uh-oh.”

PJ looked up at Jack’s voice, trying (and failing) to wipe the frown off his face. “Uh-oh?”

“What’s wrong?”

PJ shook his head, returning his gaze to his bass. “Nothing you can help with.”

“Let’s call a break on songs.” Jack sounded even more worried now. “And let’s have a drink. Even I can’t help, talking might make you feel better.”

PJ took a deep breath, even as worry about the godfather, about his future, began to surface. “Not a long one.”

“It’ll be as long as it needs to be, Peej.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “Come on.”

PJ reluctantly followed Jack to their usual table (today it was void of Felix, as he’d had some rich person business to attend to), painfully aware of Jordan’s gaze burning into him the entire time.

Hopefully Jordan wouldn’t do anything.

Mark drifted over to their table quickly enough, but PJ didn’t really pay attention to what Jack ordered for him. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too strong—going home drunk at this point probably wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows, but it could put Jordan under questioning.

“Now,” Jack leaned forward onto the table, even as Chica began pawing at PJ’s leg, “what’s wrong?”

PJ scooped up Chica, ignoring how large she’d started getting. She was still plenty small enough to lay across his lap and cuddle. “It’s...” He had to be careful—Jack might not be in the Irish mob, but there were still plenty of men in earshot who could be. “It’s my uncle.”

Jack frowned, but said nothing.

“He’s been sick for...” PJ shook his head, almost instantly giving up on counting. “Years. And this morning, I was woken by a Family member to find out he’s taken a turn for the worse. A big one.” Hopefully Jack wouldn’t hear the difference between “Family” and “family” and would assume it was the latter.

Jack’s breath caught, and then a soft “oh” before a hand came down on PJ’s shoulder.

“It’s been... it’s been a rough day.” PJ rubbed his face. “I’ve had to come to terms with the way my life is going to go, and I haven’t.”

“We’ll always be here for you.” Jack gave PJ’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

PJ groaned, dropping his head into his arms.

Jack’s hand drifted from PJ’s shoulder. “What else is there?”

“Ever since he got sick, I’ve been helping him run the family business—it’s nothing big—but this morning, he made it clear who’s inheriting it when-” PJ cursed softly. “He’s turning it over to me when he dies.”

That was, by far, the the most simplified way of putting things.

“And...” PJ curled his arm around his head. “I can’t sell it, I have Family relying on it for income, and I just... I’m going to have to give up Freddy’s, Jack.”

“You’re under no obligation to stay.” Mark’s voice was accompanied by the clink of glasses against the wood. “Family is important. If you need to leave to take care of them, you need to leave. That’s all there is to it.”

PJ lifted his head to see Mark giving him a sad smile. “I don’t... I don’t have to go yet, I still have time until he dies, it’s just...”

“Do you need to spend time with family?” Mark’s eyebrows furrowed. “Especially with what’s going on?”

PJ shook his head. “They’re all asleep during Freddy hours, they won’t even notice I’m gone.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Probably.”

“You need to take care of yourself, too,” Jack interjected. “You still aren’t getting enough sleep, are you.”

PJ winced and reached for his drink, taking a sip before he even looked at it. Anything to avoid answering.

Jack crossed his arms.

A familiar smoky flavor filled PJ’s mouth, and he glanced at it in surprise. Yet again, he was holding that oddly pink drink, the one that had to be Mark’s essence.

Mark, who was giving him a vaguely disapproving look at his lack of response.

“Don’t you dare give me that.” PJ slumped in his seat and took another mouthful. “Not you.”

Mark put a hand on his hip. “PJ.”

PJ groaned and shook his head. “I’ll manage. It’s not going to last forever. Just... once I can get my mind to stop thinking when I try to sleep.” He glanced at his drink, debating a third gulp in as many seconds.

“It’ll get easier.” Mark reached over and pulled the drink from PJ’s hand and set it on the table. 

PJ picked it back up and slid out of Mark’s reach, then took another mouthful.

Mark sighed.

“Would it help to talk about what’s keeping you awake?” Jack kept his eyes fixed on PJ.

“I... don’t know. It’s...” PJ made a face, then held his drink away from himself as Mark reached for it once again. “Excuse you, I’m drinking this.”

“You’re drinking it way too fast.” Mark reached for it again. “That’s made to be sipped, not downed. You’re going to be feeling it fast, Peej.”

“Good.” PJ took the last mouthful, then set the glass on the table. “You can have the cup now, if you want it still.”

Mark scowled at him.

Jack, however, made a soft gagging sound. When both the others looked at him in concern, he was watching the main floor of the speakeasy.

PJ turned, and instantly wished he hadn’t looked.

Sophie was taking a seat next to Wiishu and Molly.

Instantly, a wave of emotion just crashed over PJ, and a whimper tore out of him as he bit down on the urge to burst into tears. He wanted to run to her, to apologize, to get her back, but he already knew that would be a futile effort. He hadn’t left the Family, she wouldn’t take him.

Jordan’s gaze, which had been watching everything go down with a slightly puzzled expression, flicked to Sophie, and then back to the table. He made a questioning gesture.

PJ let out a soft gasp, which turned into a tiny sob. He couldn’t leave the Family for Sophie now. Not when the godfather’s days were numbered, not when well over 30 people were going to be relying on him. Not one of them had an honest job, the Family was their only choice, which meant it was his only option.

Chica licked him, whining softly, and PJ curled around her to try and muffle his own sobbing.

“I’m getting him another drink.” Mark stood.

“He’s going to need the strongest thing you’ve got.” Jack frowned at PJ.

Mark froze. “I’m not giving him the Nightmare. He’s got enough problems sleeping as it is, and I don’t want to kill him.”

“What’s next?”

“The Puppet.” Mark put a hand on his hip. “It’s pretty bitter, though.”

“His life’s a mess. Just give it to him.” Jack reached across the table to give PJ a comforting pat, only to miss and pat him on the head like one would a dog.

PJ didn’t seem to notice.

Sophie quietly glanced at the empty musician’s stage, trying to ignore the ache that came when she saw PJ’s bass leaning against his chair. He wasn’t up there, fortunately (she didn’t know what she would have done if he’d seen her looking for him), but his coat in its usual place on the stage meant he was here somewhere.

“They’re taking a break.” Wiishu’s voice broke into Sophie’s thoughts. “Are you sure you want to see him again?”

“I can’t avoid looking at the musicians forever.” Sophie winced. “I might as well get the first bit of hurt over with.”

Wiishu conceded the point with a nod, then turned her attention to Molly, who was disinterestedly tilting her own drink.

“Any word on him?”

Molly shook her head. “Just what Wilford was able to find out when he visited.” She sighed and set her glass on the table, her fingers instead beginning to twist her engagement ring.

Sophie paused, then realized the seat next to Molly was empty. Wade was nowhere nearby.

“They’re beating him half to death in there and there’s nothing I can do to get him out.” Molly scowled, then started moving to get up. “Apologies for cutting the night short, but there are too many memories here for the moment.”

“Of course.” Wiishu dipped her head. “Take care, alright? The Orchids can’t afford to lose you too.”

Molly’s scowl deepened, even as the news of Wade slowly dawned on Sophie. This was, after all, her first time returning to Freddy’s since she had dumped PJ.

“Oh, trust me. The Orchids aren’t the ones who need to look out for that.” She stood, and walked out.

“Wade got caught bootlegging,” Wiishu murmured by way of explanation. “It’s not been good.”

Sophie swallowed. “What did she mean?”

“He couldn’t use usual routes, not since the hit on them. They had to change everything. She blames the noodles for it, since they did the hit.”

Noodles?

“I haven’t asked what she’s done, but I don’t think the Liguoris are going to enjoy it very much.”

Sophie’s entire body tensed at PJ’s last name, but then, as what Wiishu said sank in, that ache she’d been feeling since walking in deepened. PJ. He was going to be affected by this. Where was he?

She turned in her chair, searching the tables for his familiar face.

Finally, she spotted Jack, with Mark setting a drink down on the table. And then, as Mark moved to the side, she had the full view of PJ with his head on the table, shoulders shaking and entire body tense.

“For what it’s worth,” Wiishu glanced at the sobbing PJ, “he really did seem to love you. I don’t know why you two broke up, but I assume you had your reasons.”

Sophie blinked rapidly, trying to hold back her own tears. This hurt far more than she’d ever planned for. “It just wouldn’t have worked. We’ve too many differences.”

Wiishu shrugged. “I mean, you met at a speakeasy. If you can both agree on Freddy’s existence, surely you can at least work out everything else. Whether or not you’re together.” She glanced behind Sophie. “I don’t imagine PJ’ll be here much longer tonight. If you want to say anything to him, you should.”

“What-” Sophie twisted in her chair to see someone completely unfamiliar watching PJ from across the room, concern worn across his face. “Who-”

“We were never really introduced. He started coming with PJ over a month ago. Never really drinks anything, just sort of watches everyone.”

Sophie didn’t even want to touch that mystery at the moment, not when every use of PJ’s name brought her closer to her own tears.

“Is he-” She glanced at PJ again. “Is he alright?”

Mark, walking back to the kitchen with the now-empty PJ glass, glanced over his shoulder. “He is. His uncle, not so much.” And with that, he walked off.

Sophie returned to staring at PJ. His uncle? He’d never mentioned an uncle. Just his Family as a whole.

Unless...

No. There was no way Molly was responsible for whatever was happening to PJ’s uncle.

Was there?

That unknown man crossed the room and held out PJ’s coat (Sophie hadn’t noticed him get it from the stage, but he must have) before bundling a still sobbing and now stumbling PJ into it. The man gave a curt nod to Jack, who gave PJ one last concerned look, and then allowed PJ to lean on him as they made their way out.

It was rather a hassle getting PJ into the passenger seat of the automobile, but it was even worse watching him try to speak through his sobs. Jordan had absolutely no idea what he was saying, but he did catch the name “Sophie,” and he sighed.

“It’ll be okay.” Jordan spared a hand from driving to give PJ a comforting pat on the shoulder. “For now, just focus on the rumble of the engine. It’s like a giant cat purring.”

PJ didn’t respond, but his sobs slowly eased into silence.

Jordan glanced over again to see PJ’s eyes slowly drifting closed, and he frowned. He wasn’t sure if PJ was that drunk—which would be bad—or if he was just exhausted. Probably the latter, since he’d been up doing things only three hours after Jordan had sent him to bed and it had almost been a full day since then. Plus, crying took a lot out of you.

Now, as long as nobody caught him literally carrying PJ inside and putting him to bed, he should be fine. If they caught him again, well, he was probably in for another talk with the godfather. 

Granted, there weren’t any rules about going to speakeasies. PJ definitely smelled too strongly of alcohol to claim anything else.

Jordan sighed, glancing at his fitfully sleeping friend.

How much worse would he be in the morning? Once he had to deal with the heartbreak all over again?

Or would PJ push it aside to lead the Family?


	49. Blood on the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>   
>  Today's tunes:  
> I Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry- Dexter Gordon

Bob had been to the Charlestown prison several times in the past: either because he was escorting a new prisoner there, he was escorting someone out, or because they’d called him in for help.

Never had he entered the doors with the intention of visiting someone.

He would be late getting home, but that was alright. Mandy got off later than he did anyway.

The guards didn’t bother escorting him to Wade’s cell; they just sent him over with directions as to where it was.

It was late, and most of the prisoners seemed to be asleep as Bob walked through the hallways. None of those awake spared him more than a glance, and that was likely to satisfy their own curiosity about who was walking the halls at this time.

Wade was easily recognizable in his cell, with his long form curled up on the small excuse for a bed. His eyes were squeezed shut, and it looked like a permanent grimace of pain was etched across his face.

“Wade?” Bob asked softly, walking up to the bars.

Wade lifted his head slightly, then glanced over.

“Wasn’t expecting a visitor today.” His voice was just as pained as his expression. Slowly, with stifled grunts, he pulled himself into a sitting position, his hand pressed hard against his left hip.

Bob frowned, taking in the sight. He’d known how badly hurt Wade was when he was arrested—he’d helped arrest him, after all—and Wade was much worse now. His face was covered in mottled bruises and shallow cuts, and his exposed hands and wrists looked to be even worse. Was one of his fingers broken?

It was only when Wade stood to walk to the bars that Bob saw the most alarming injury of all. Where Wade’s hand was pressed against his hip, blood was soaking into his prison uniform and coating his hand.

“What- you’re bleeding!” Bob blinked rapidly, dragging his gaze up to Wade’s face.

Wade sagged against the bars, allowing Bob to hear his sharp breathing. “Yeah. For almost two hours now. Every time I move, it starts all over again.”

Bob flicked his gaze to the wound, trying to judge how much blood Wade had lost. “What happened?”

“Got jumped again.” Wade grimaced, pressing harder against his hip. “Got stabbed. They yanked whatever they used out of me... but I think I’ve managed to keep the bleeding to a minimum?” He lifted one shoulder. “It really hurts, though.”

Bob scowled. “Did none of the guards notice?”

“They pretty much ignore me.”

Bob groaned. “Idiots.” He shook his head, resisting the temptation to punch one of the bars on Wade’s cell. “Get back on the bed, okay? I’ll get you some help. That has to be treated.”

Wade’s only response was a nod and a soft gasp of pain as he limped back to his bed.

Bob turned and hurried down the halls until he found one of the guards. It was officially the night shift now, so it had taken him a bit longer than he’d hoped.

“Any problems?” the guard asked simply. They’d worked together in the past, but Bob couldn’t remember what the other’s name was.

“He was stabbed.”

“He’ll live.”

Bob narrowed his eyes at the guard. Right. This had been one of  _ those  _ guards. “He’ll bleed to death before morning, and you’ll get in trouble for letting that happen.”

The guard arranged his face into a mildly concerned frown, crossed his arms, then stood up off the wall.

“Alright, fine. Show me. He’s been trouble from day one, so if he’s faking it...” He trailed off threateningly.

Bob smothered the temptation to curse the guard, instead turning back to Wade’s cell. “Come on, then. If you really want to waste valuable time checking for yourself, I’ll show you.”

The guard grunted and, while he followed in silence, his footsteps cracked harshly on the prison floors.

It only took a few more minutes before Bob was nodding at Wade’s cell, where Wade was sitting on his bed, back against the wall, and even more blood soaking his prison clothes. Bob didn’t know how much that meant Wade had lost—if it was just soaking through fabric like some sort of dramatic reenactment, or if he really was losing that much blood that quickly.

“Ah.” The guard’s frown deepened. “Here, this is what we’ll do.” He walked up to the door and undid the lock, then grabbed Bob’s arm and shoved him into the cell. “You check him for weapons, and try to stop the bleeding. I’ll go get help and let Mass. General know we’ll be on the way with a criminal soon.”

Bob shrugged the guard’s arm off him and walked up to Wade as the cell door clanged shut behind him.

Wade glanced up, but didn’t really seem able to focus on Bob. His entire frame was tense and his gaze slightly unfocused.

“Lay down, I’m here to help.” Bob gripped Wade’s shoulder and gently guided him fully onto the bed. With each pained gasp Wade took Bob flinched in sympathy.

Once Wade was down, Bob set about staunching the blood. He didn’t know nearly as much as he probably should for being married to a nurse, but he did know some things.

He quickly pulled off his scarf, folding it less-than-neatly and sliding it between Wade’s hand and his hip. In that moment, he got a view of exactly how much  _ red _ there was there, and if he hadn’t seen so much of it in his career as a cop he likely would have been sick then and there.

Wade’s hand, the one that wasn’t holding the scarf in place, grabbed at Bob’s coat. Instantly, Bob turned his attention to Wade, grimacing as Wade’s eyes squinted shut against the pain.

“You feeling strong enough to stay awake for me?”

Wade nodded, though his eyes didn’t open. “I don’t know for how long...” He swallowed, then took another gasp of air. “I just want it to stop,” he whimpered, “it really hurts.”

“I’d imagine so, yes.” Bob glanced into the hall, checking to see if they were ready to transport Wade to the hospital. “Getting stabbed tends to do that to you.”

Wade opened his eyes for the sole purpose of giving Bob a flat look.

Good. If he had the strength to be annoyed, he would last a while longer.

Bob continued to talk to Wade, asking questions about who had done the stabbing and how long he’d been stabbed (he knew the hospital staff would need to know that second one), but Wade’s answers were all grumpy mutters.

Bob shook his head. “You’ve got to work with me, alright?”

“No.” Wade scowled again. “I don’t have to.”

“Wade...” Bob shook his head, putting his own hand on the fortunately-not-bloodsoaked scarf and putting extra pressure on it.

Wade hollered, entire body jerking at the action.

“You have to promise me you’ll get back to Molly, alright? I don’t want to hand you back to her in a coffin. I want to attend your wedding—you know, after you get out of prison and plan it all over again. You’ve got plenty of life potential ahead of you. You’re not allowed to die now.”

Wade’s hands grabbed at Bob’s wrist, fingernails digging into it. “Ow!”

“Promise me, Wade.”

Wade let out a jerky nod, even as his fingers began to rake across Bob’s wrist in an effort to lessen the pain of the pressure. “I’m not leaving her alone. I’ll get back to her.”

Bob nodded firmly, keeping pressure on Wade’s wound despite the scratches now covering his wrist and hands.

It only took another minute for the proper help to show up, at which point Wade was loaded onto a stretcher, one of the guards complained about how Wade was too long to fit properly, and they were off.

At the guards’ request, Bob stayed next to Wade on the drive over to the hospital. Wade didn’t say anything the entire time, but he did reach over at one point and grab Bob’s hand in such a tight grip that Bob’s hand breaking away from his wrist was a distinct possibility.

Bob let him. He could hear how sharp Wade’s breathing was; he could feel Wade’s grip on his hand weakening. When he glanced over, his scarf was clearly getting close to its capacity of holding Wade’s blood.

They were on the familiar streets approaching Mass. General when Wade’s hand finally slipped from Bob’s. Alarmed, Bob glanced over to see that Wade was, by some miracle, still breathing, but he’d taken on a distinct pallid look under all his bruises.

Bob let out a shaky breath, but picked up Wade’s hand and put it by his side, getting a weak squeeze in return.

“Stay with me,” Bob whispered. “You promised, remember?”

Wade’s eyes slid closed, but he gave the smallest of nods.

Then Wade was being pulled away; being taken inside. Bob could have left, he’d done as much as the guards had asked of him, but he didn’t. He wasn’t going to walk away until he knew for sure that Wade was going to be okay—or until he had confirmation of Wade’s death.

He owed that much to JP, at least. The kid had already lost one family because of law enforcement negligence, and Bob was going to do everything he could to keep that from happening again.

It was almost impossible to keep track of Wade for the next while, and definitely impossible to get close enough to see how he was doing. Mandy came out once and assured him Wade was still hanging on, but she was called away for more work before she could say anything more.

Only an hour or so had passed before Bob was given the information for the room Wade was being kept in, but it felt much longer. 

That same guard was standing near Wade’s bed as Bob approached, looking rather grouchy. Likely, he’d been told he had to keep guard. They wouldn’t want a prisoner escaping, after all.

Wade, however, seemed to be asleep. Bob couldn’t see the stab wound, seeing as Wade had a blanket pulled over him, but that was alright. He’d seen more of Wade injured than he ever wanted to.

“If you’re looking to talk to him, they said he’d be under for another half hour or so, but he might not wake until morning.”

Bob nodded. “If you want, I can keep an eye on him. You can go back to your job.”

The guard glanced at Wade, but nodded. “Alright. Someone will be back to replace you around 5 or so, but I’m pretty sure he can’t even walk right now, so it shouldn’t be too bad.” He bent over and unlocked the handcuffs that had been trapping one of Wade’s hands to the bed rail. “Put your pair here. The guy this morning will replace them with his own.”

Bob nodded again, and the guard walked off.

After he locked Wade’s wrist to the bed Bob pulled a chair over and took a seat. He’d been on his feet all day, after all, and it wasn’t like Wade was in any condition to actually get up and do stuff.

At one point, Wade shifted and his hand drifted to his hip. Bob winced. If Wade could feel it even in his sleep, that was some awful pain. He might wake up long before morning, if that was the case.

Bob paused. What time was it now? He’d stopped paying attention a while ago. A bit after midnight?

He shook his head and glanced at Wade again. He just couldn’t help it—the mottled bruises and rough abrasions covering his face, the cuts and swelling on his hands and arms, knowing what must be hidden under clothing was at least as bad...

It hurt.

Boston’s law had put Wade in prison, and here he was, in the hospital, who knew how close to death, after not even a week. It had been five days, if you were being generous.

“Bob?” Mandy’s voice came softly, and Bob looked up to see her standing at the foot of Wade’s bed.

“Yeah?”

“Do you need anything before I head home?”

Bob shook his head, then paused and glanced at Wade again, this time noting how his friend’s face was scrunching in pain. “Can you let Mark know about Wade? He’ll make sure to tell the people who need to know. You’ll have to wait until he gets back from his second job-” Bob wasn’t sending Mandy to a speakeasy, after all “-but you’ll have a better chance of catching him before I do.”

Mandy nodded. “I can do that.” She glanced at Wade and sighed. “I think he’ll make it, but...” She made a face. “It’s hard to know sometimes.”

Bob frowned at Wade’s still form. “I hope he does.”

After Mandy left, Bob slumped in his chair and watched Wade again. He should have done something to keep this from happening. Which was a ridiculous thought; he couldn’t do anything about people while they were in prison. He had no jurisdiction there. He couldn’t stop fights, or watch Wade all the time.

But...

If Gar hadn’t been with him, he would have let Wade keep going. He would have let Wade run with JP, claim he’d missed them in the chaos caused by gunshots going off or that he’d lost track of them somehow.

Considering Gar’s typical assignment was to hunt down speakeasies, though, helping a bootlegger in front of him wouldn’t have done Bob very much good.

Wade groaned softly, then his eyes flickered open and he grimaced.

“I recommend against moving,” Bob supplied.

Wade’s eyes flicked over, and he almost didn’t seem surprised to see Bob. Though, from the slightly glazed-over look he had, Bob wasn’t even sure Wade was processing his presence.

Wade blinked a few times before his gaze focused on Bob, and some sort of relief seemed to wash across his face. “Bob?”

“I’m here.”

Wade rolled his head back into a resting position, and his hand shifted the rest of the way to resting over his stab wound again. “How... How long have I been out?”

“A couple hours. Didn’t miss much.”

Wade sighed, grimacing again.

“Did…” Wade trailed off for a moment, frowning. “Did you make me promise that I’d make it back to Molly?”

Bob nodded. “You were dying.”

Wade grunted. “Still might be.” He lifted his head and looked around, slowly taking in his surroundings.

“No, they said you were stable. So unless you do something stupid, you should be okay.”

Wade dropped his head onto his pillow, silent. He didn’t say anything for a minute, and Bob couldn’t help but worry for his friend.

Then Wade looked over at Bob, and there was something incredibly determined in his eyes. “Help me escape. If I can get out of here, I can get to her.”

“What? You can barely even move.” Bob blinked. “Besides, you’d get caught.”

“I know this city really well,” Wade promised, “and I know how to lose people chasing me. When I don’t run straight into someone else, that is.” That last part was muttered.

“You can’t run. You were stabbed, okay? Don’t die being stupid.”

Wade shook his head. “I won’t. I just need your help, that’s it.”

Bob hesitated. If he got caught helping Wade escape…

No. JP needed his family. Bob had failed him once before. He wasn’t going to do it again.

So he leaned over, a tiny key in hand, and unlocked the handcuffs around Wade’s wrist.

“Great.” Wade took a deep breath, wincing again. “Help me sit up. Then go distract the doctors and nurses. I don’t really care what you do, just… give me a good head start.”

Sitting up was absolutely excruciating, and it took all of Wade’s effort to not make any sounds. This whole thing wouldn’t work if someone came to check on him.

“I’ll tell them I’m worried about your condition, that I think you’ve taken a turn for the worse.” Bob glanced to the hall, then gave Wade space to start sliding his legs off the bed. “It’s nighttime, so it should take me a bit to find someone, and I’ll try to get us lost on the way back. That’ll give you plenty of time to sneak your way out of here.” He paused. “If you get caught, I’m saying it was all on you.”

“Fair.”

With that, Bob left.

Wade slowly shifted his weight, trying to calm the sharp throbbing in his side as he put one bare foot, then the other, on the cool floor.

Right. It was late November. He was wearing nothing but a hospital gown.

This was a problem.

Well, he was already in trouble for bootlegging. And he was about to be an escaped convict. Might as well add some petty theft to his list of crimes.

He pulled the blanket over his shoulders, then around him, trying to completely wrap himself in it without restricting his leg movement.

Pulling himself into a standing position was absolute agony, and it took quite a bit of effort not to sob in pain. But he had to get to Molly, and this was the only way he’d get her again unless he wanted to wait six months—and who knew if he’d survive the next time he got stabbed. There would be a next time, unless either he or Mir was moved again.

No, this was his only option. 

Moving his right leg with each step was easy enough, if he ignored the agony erupting from his left hip when he put weight on it. Or moved his leg. Or walked.

Still, he managed to speed hobble out down the hall and down the elevator. Fortunately, he didn’t encounter anyone, patient or otherwise. Which was good. He probably wouldn’t have been able to explain to anyone why he was gasping as he walked, or why he looked like a poor imitation of a penguin.

Finally, though, he managed to get out the door, and he gasped. Howling winter wind bit into him, and his bare feet stung painfully on the frozen stone of the sidewalk.

He had to get to Molly. He could do this walk when he was well, and when it was day. He could do it now. In the night. In the cold. Wearing nothing but a blanket and hospital gown. With a stab wound in his side that had only been treated and hadn’t actually started recovering yet.

He could do this, right?

A particularly strong gust of wind blew flecks of snow into Wade’s face, but he was already hobbling down the street as fast as he could.

Which wasn’t very fast.

After a few minutes, everything started to go numb. Even the screaming in his side dropped to a dull throb, allowing Wade to move faster without as much pain. He had to be careful, especially as the blanket began to slide from his grasp.

Snow wasn’t falling heavily, it was only a light sprinkling, but the sheer force of the wind was hurling it like tiny needles into all of Wade’s exposed skin. Even with being numbed by cold, Wade could still feel those, pricking his legs and hands and feet and face. The flakes landed on his glasses, too, which made it awfully difficult to see ahead of him.

Not that it was easy to see down the street in the snow at night anyway.

It was fortunate Wade knew the streets of Boston so well, as that allowed him to know what alleys led where and what the shortest route was to where he and Molly lived.

He wasn’t sure how far he’d been walking when he stumbled, crashing into a nearby brick wall. He paused, only then realizing how heavily he was panting. His side was oddly warm, too, especially for being out in the cold like this.

He dropped his hand to his hip, only to encounter wetness.

What?

It wasn’t Wade’s fault he was confused, that was a result of blood loss, but it did mean it took him a good thirty seconds to realize the blood soaking through the blanket meant he’d managed to pretty much undo whatever good the hospital had done him.

He muttered a half-hearted curse.

It was too late to go back now. They’d be looking for him. Attempting to escape prison didn’t have good consequences, and Wade was already in enough trouble with the law.

Well, it wasn’t illegal unless he was caught. Or something like that.

Taking a deep breath, Wade pushed himself up off the wall and continued stumbling forward. One foot in front of the other, to Molly. That was all it was.

At some point, faint voices reached him. Two had distinct Irish accents, but... neither was Jack. Wade wouldn’t be getting any help from them.

And so when he wobbled, then his leg buckled, he was rather surprised to realize someone had caught him.

“Hey, isn’t that the guy Jack spends a lot of time with?” Irish Voice One said, much closer this time.

“I think so.” Irish Voice Two was even closer, voice sort of rumbling into Wade’s ears. Oh. His head was flopped against a chest. That would do it.

Wade struggled to stand, but his body just didn’t want to cooperate.

“He’s the head muscle for the Orchids, right? I thought he was arrested.”

“Well, he’s here now.” Irish Voice Two paused, hauling Wade up. To Wade’s surprise, Irish Voice Two was even taller than he was. How was that possible?

“What are you two doing with him, then?” Not Irish Voice, also someone Wade didn’t recognize, asked.

“He’s going to die if we just leave him,” Irish Voice One said.

“Let’s take him to a Greenhouse. The closest one is maybe a mile and a half from here,” Irish Voice Two started moving, apparently content to drag Wade when his feet didn’t respond to him. “He’s already halfway to frozen to death; he needs warmth.”

For a long, long moment, the only sound was the howling wind and crunching footsteps.

“If he gets blood inside, you’re cleaning it out,” Not Irish Voice grumbled. “Pull him in the back.”

“Nolga,” Irish Voice One hesitated, “you’re the only one with a coat that’d fit him.”

Irish Voice Two (Nolga, apparently) sighed. “Bryce. Do you know how much it cost to tailor this coat until it fit?”

“You’re the one trying to work up the ranks right now. Getting on Jack’s good side by helping out a friend is only going to help you.”

“Look, at least  _ I _ have my second mask.  _ You _ haven’t even graduated yet.”

Not Irish sighed. “I swear, if I have to hear you two arguing about that again—yes, I know Willy had to retire and you two are the only other Faceless in the mob and one of you has to get close to Jack to keep an eye on things and Bryce isn’t even a full Faceless yet, you haven’t stopped talking about that—I will shove this half-dead man in my car and leave you two to walk back to the warehouse.”

“Craig, please.” Bryce sighed. “I’m trying to help here.”

“Look how much I care.”

The sound of a car door opening was the only warning Wade had before he was being bent into a warm (comparatively, at least) interior that was far too small for him.

There was a reason he never took the back seat in Molly’s automobile.

Hands pulled the blanket off of him, and something nice and warm slid over him instead. A soft click, and the dim light from a lighter filled the interior of the automobile. The man dropping into the front seat, now without a coat, must have been Nolga, then; and the more average-height young man next to Wade in the back was probably Bryce.

Bryce took the blanket and pulled out a knife, starting to cut it into strips. “Here. We’ll use these to staunch the bleeding.”

The driver, who by process of elimination had to be Craig, glanced over his shoulder, then handed the lighter to Nolga. “As long as you can do it while I drive.”

“Deal.” Bryce reached around Wade and under this unfamiliar coat, tying the first of the strips around Wade’s hip.

Wade couldn’t help it. He hissed at the pain.

“Yeah, it’s going to hurt.” Bryce glanced up as he spoke, but didn’t spend much time at all looking at Wade’s face before returning his attention to his task at hand. “So, who’s telling Jack about this guy?”

“Not me,” Craig shrugged. “I’m not a McLaughlin Boy.”

“It’s your turn, Bryce.” Nolga didn’t even glance back as he spoke.

Bryce rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

There was silence in the vehicle for all of three seconds before Craig glanced back. “You ready for January first?”

Bryce chuckled, tying off a second strip. “Oh, am I. Just over a month and I’ll be allowed to do jobs on my own.”

“I mean, technically, but nobody ever wants the newbies.”

“Look, it’s the possibility that matters.” Bryce shook his head.

Wade blinked, trying to figure out what they were talking about. It sounded vaguely familiar, from things Minx had said, but he wasn’t sure. And they were talking about whatever this was so casually, like they were sure he wouldn’t remember any of it.

Granted, at the rate he was losing blood, they were probably right about that.

As they pulled to a corner, and Craig checked to make sure the turn was clear to make, a hand rapped on Nolga’s window.

“What- who is it?” Craig didn’t take his eyes off the road.

Nogla, however, did, and he reached over and put a hand on Craig’s arm. “It’s Robin.”

It took far too much effort, but Wade managed to lift his head to look out his own window, only to see Robin looking at him in concern.

Nolga popped his door open. “What is it?”

“Coppers have roadblocks up. They’re searching every car that comes by for a prisoner that escaped the hospital after getting stabbed.” His gaze flicked to Wade once again. “They’ve got a very flattering description of you going, by the way.”

Wade reached for the door handle, trying to place where he was now by the buildings around him. He was probably only a block or so away from the closest Greenhouse, but they wouldn’t be prepared for him. No, he needed to make it the rest of the way to Molly.

“They had me stopping every car to warn people about this ‘dangerous bootlegger,’ but there isn’t much in the way of traffic at one in the morning.” Robin shrugged. “I can take him from here, if you want.”

“He’s not in any condition to be walking,” Bryce protested.

“You’re not in any condition to get arrested for aiding a criminal’s escape.” Robin leaned on the car frame, getting a sharp look from Craig. “I’ll make sure he gets past the bulls, alright?”

Slowly, Bryce nodded. “If he dies-”

“You’ve done all you can.” Robin stood from leaning on the frame. “And remember to turn off that lighter when you get searched. Also, you know, ditch evidence and stuff.”

Bryce just nodded, and then Wade was being pulled out of the back seat and onto the street. Robin helped him up, then slid Wade’s arms over his own shoulders.

Instantly, most of Wade’s weight dropped to Robin, his hip screaming pain at him.

Robin just about crumpled on the spot. “Oof. Come on, let’s get you to the alley. Where you headed?”

“Home.” Wade gritted his teeth, trying not to scream as they started moving.

“Fair.”

It took almost a minute before Wade was once again leaning against a wall, panting heavily at the exertion that had required of him.

“Just breathe a minute, and then get going.” Robin patted Wade on the shoulder. “The bulls could be here soon, and I’ll do my best to distract them, but you’ve got to get moving by yourself, okay?”

Wade managed a nod.

Robin nodded, quickly buttoning up Wade's new coat before clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck. Don't die.”

And then he was gone.

Wade took a couple shuddering breaths, but started pulling himself against the wall before too long. Robin might not be able to buy much time, so he needed to use everything he had.

It didn't take long for Wade to fall into a very simple set of actions to keep himself going, and he slowly became less and less aware of his surroundings as he continued.

This was partly due to the blood still leaking through the improvised bandages Bryce had managed to make, and partly due to exhaustion, and partly still to the snow picking up slightly. It wasn't yet heavy snow, not by a long shot, but it was plenty.

At some point, he could have sworn he heard glass crunching underfoot, but he saw nothing but snow when he glanced at the ground.

He ended up stumbling into alley walls and leaning against trees more and more as he continued, his head getting lighter every time he started moving again.

Just before he started his final stretch home, the sound of some sort of machine guns and screams rang through the air. In a break in the sounds, as Wade hauled himself past an alley, faint Italian reached his ears. 

He had to have lost too much blood. For a second, it sounded like PJ’s voice was among those in the alley, but that was impossible. PJ was at Freddy's. He was always at Freddy’s.

The wind and snow stole whatever thought he was having next, leaving Wade once again stumbling towards home.

The world was getting rather unsteady now, spinning and unfocused. It was only through habit that Wade managed to pull himself up the front walk and to the door.

The last of his strength went to sending a solid pound on the door, and then, finally, blood loss and exhaustion took over and Wade slumped to the ground.

It took a few minutes, but Molly answered the door. Instantly, her eyes widened, and she was calling for JP and Brycelyn. Once Wade was inside, she sent JP out to shovel the snow on the sidewalks all along the street to hide Wade’s bloody footprints, and had Brycelyn call Minx.

They had a lot of work to do.


	50. The Wolf Pup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>   
>  Today's tunes:  
> Autumn Leaves- Cannonball Adderly

Gar was on his way to the office when he passed Patrck just leaning against the wall, looking like he was thinking about something rather important. He would have moved on to let him think, but Patrck glanced up as he passed.

“Hey, Gar?” Patrck’s voice was filled with worry.

“Yeah?”

“Any luck with finding Mrs. Patrick?”

Gar shook his head. “The chief wants us to get back to our normal speakeasy work, too, which means we can’t spare any more time to look.”

Patrck made a face, slumping more into the wall.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just...” Patrck shook his head, closing his eyes. “I’m worried something like this will happen to Marie, is all.”

Gar’s expression softened, and he placed a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Does anyone have any reason to take her?”

Patrck hesitated, but finally shook his head. “No, of course not. It’s just... I worry.”

“What can I do to help?”

Patrck shrugged. “Not much, really. It’s just me being overprotective.”

Gar frowned slightly, and squeezed Pat’s shoulder before he dropped his hand to his side. “Well, let me know if there is something I can do. You’re like a brother to me; I’ll do whatever I can to help you out.”

Patrck sighed, and tilted his head. “I don’t know how much you can do, buddy, but I appreciate the thought.”

Gar raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to lurk around people and look threatening to scare them off?”

“Nah. Those types always blouse when I pull out my pistol to clean it.” Patrck’s mouth twitched up in the slightest of smiles. “If things change, though, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

Gar clapped his hand to Pat’s back and smiled, then moved on his way. He needed to comfort another friend.

MatPat wasn’t immediately obvious as he opened the door to their office, but Gar just slipped in and closed it before walking to the other side of MatPat’s desk.

MatPat was sitting on the floor, elbows on his knees and back to the desk drawers, tears streaking his face and eyes closed.

“I failed her, Gar.” MatPat’s voice was raw, on the edge of breaking. “I couldn’t find her.”

“We’re not giving up hope.” Gar sat cross-legged in front of his partner. “We  _ will _ find her.”

“Will we?” MatPat dropped his head against his desk with a dull thud. “We’ve been over everything dozens of times. I can’t remember anything new. None of our neighbors saw anything. I can’t even identify who took her, much less where they went.” He shook his head. “What kind of detective am I? I can’t find my wife, I’m never going to solve Jason’s murder, and the pieces on that damn speakeasy aren’t falling together, no matter how much I try.”

Gar frowned, leaning forward to place his hand on MatPat’s arm. “Hey. You’ve done the best you can. That’s all you can do. We’re not going to stop looking for her, okay?”

“We have to. The chief wants to close the case, write it off as a Faceless crime. Even he’s willing to use Boston’s bogey monsters as a scapegoat.”

It was fortunate MatPat’s eyes were still closed, or he might have seen concern flash across Gar’s face. “No, we don’t have to. We have to go back to looking for the speakeasy, but we can still look for her. Even if we do it off the clock.”

MatPat’s eyes drifted open, shimmering with tears. “What makes you think we’ll be able to find her then? We don’t have anything to work off of, Gar.”

Gar frowned more. “Let’s go over it one last time. I’ll write everything down, and we can come back to it whenever we like.”

MatPat took a deep breath, then nodded shakily.

“We were alone, trying out some new tea. It wasn’t the tea that drugged us, but something someone added in later, probably while we were out on our walk. We’d had the tea before with no problems.” MatPat’s pause hung in the air thickly. “There were two people. One had much heavier footsteps than the other. I think the voices were male and female, but I can’t say for sure. Whispers aren’t always reliable. One of them had no problems picking up Steph. One apologized.” He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “Whatever drugged us gave me an awful nightmare.”

Gar paused in his writing and glanced up. “You never mentioned that before.”

MatPat lifted his head slightly, opening his eyes again. “I didn’t?”

Gar shook his head. 

MatPat’s eyes lingered on Gar for a long moment, then he dropped his head back again. “Might as well record it, then. It’s probably useless, but it’s good practice for you.”

Gar nodded. “Alright, then. If you’re sure. Let’s hear it.”

“I was trying to find her, but I couldn’t. Jason started talking to me, but he looked like you’d expect after he’d been dead for nearly a year.” MatPat shook his head. “He accused me of forgetting about him, about letting his killer get away in favor of shutting down speakeasies and... and training you.”

Gar’s hand tightened on his pen, but he said nothing. 

“Then I was drowning in alcohol of some kind, and you pulled me out. I didn’t see your face at first, since I was trying to breathe, but when I looked up, your face was gone.”

Gar’s grip tightened more, and this time a quiet sound issued from his mouth.

“Then Drake was there, and-” MatPat’s voice caught before tears started streaming down his face again. “You both started talking about how dead people can’t share their secrets, and then Drake sh- He shot you.”

The casing on Gar’s pen  _ crack _ ed loudly, but MatPat didn’t seem to notice.

“He said that thing about ‘an eye for an eye,’ with the tooth thing too, and then he added something like ‘a life for a life’ and then he was shot and I was holding the gun again and you weren’t breathing, Gar; you weren’t even you—you were Jason.”

Gar swallowed, then leaned forward and put his hand on MatPat’s arm again. “Deep breaths, okay?”

MatPat took several, slowly gaining more control with each one, before he finally wiped his face on his shirt sleeve. He swallowed thickly, then continued.

“When I stood up, I was surrounded by faceless masks. I didn’t know most of them, but I saw the one Kjellberg’s man wears. They whispered all sorts of accusations, and I... I ran. I ran until I found Madame Foxglove, and I followed her until I saw Ste- my wife. But then she was dragged away and I couldn’t follow because I was being swallowed in the pages of Jason’s journal.”

Gar tapped his pen on his journal, giving MatPat a concerned look. 

MatPat just took a deep breath. “I’m okay. At least, I will be.”

Gar nodded slowly. “If you say so.”

They sat there in silence for a minute, Gar reviewing his notes and MatPat twisting his wedding band on his finger.

“There’s so few clues,” MatPat whispered. “She might has well have been taken by the Faceless.”

“Faceless aren’t real, though.” Gar kept his voice carefully even, and tried not to crack the casing on his pen even further. MatPat didn’t know, and he’d like to keep it that way. "She’s still around. We’ll find her.”

MatPat shook his head. “I hope so, Gar. I hope so.”

After that, any efforts Gar made to comfort or cheer MatPat were pushed aside with some muttered excuse on how the chief wanted them to return to their regular work. Eventually, Gar stopped, but he still noticed how MatPat would stare at his wedding ring when they came to pauses in reviewing their notes on Madame Foxglove’s speakeasy.

\-----

Gar closed the door to his apartment, bending down to greet Dante. A brief look around the apartment proved his father was nowhere inside, which meant he was working.

Gar locked the door and walked to his room, not bothering to remove his coat. It was about to get a lot colder again, after all, and he didn’t particularly care for freezing.

He paused to stow his detective journal away, then pulled open a drawer and reached to the bottom of it. His fingers slid over a familiar surface, then hooked under the edge of his mask.

He pulled it out.

It was his regular mask (seeing as he had yet to graduate and get his formal one) and he was familiar with it. He didn’t wear it much these days, since they were filled with detective work, but it was his. He’d worn it for a lot of his training, before he’d gone undercover.

Quietly, Gar slid on his mask, and some part of him relaxed. With it on, he didn’t have to be the rookie detective, Jason’s replacement. He was the Wolf Pup. At least, until he earned his own nickname. 

He didn’t mind it so much. Most of the people who called him that instead of his name were quite a bit older than him, or had met him when he was still a kid. He’d decided long ago that if it made people underestimate him, well… that was in his favour.

Besides, it made him sound adorable.

His mask on, Gar opened the door to the secret passage behind that bookcase MatPat had been examining so closely before. Hopefully this time, MatPat wouldn’t appear while he was gone.

Dante followed Gar into the passageway. He was used to this, and both he and Gar ignored the other doors to other apartments in the passage, instead plowing ahead to the headquarters.

Gar had a question, and there was someone who could answer it.

When he entered one of the indoor courtyards a few of the younger trainees ran up to him. They started asking him questions about what it was like being a detective, and what the coolest thing he’d seen so far was: he answered with a smile, and as soon as they returned to their work he was on his way again.

Despite his delays, it didn’t take him long to get to the offices of Boston’s head Faceless. A few of them glanced at him, but none of them moved to stop him. A few seemed surprised to see him—which was fair; he didn’t usually come this far into the headquarters, unless he’d been called in—but they just returned to whatever they’d been doing before Gar had come through.

Finally, he stood in front of his father’s office. The door was open, so he slipped in quietly.

His father was standing where he often did, overlooking the training grounds, and he glanced over his shoulder at Gar’s footsteps.

“How was it today?”

“We didn’t get much done.” Gar walked up next to him, then paused. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Was anyone assigned to kidnap Detective Patrick’s wife?” The thought had been troubling him all day, but he hadn’t dared slip away to ask until now.

A pause, then a head shake. “No. No, that wasn’t us. Nobody’s requested a kidnapping for a while, now.”

Gar let out a long sigh. It was good to know, but it meant he couldn’t even hint MatPat in the right direction.

“Gar?”

Gar looked up at his father’s voice. “Yeah?”

“We need to have a talk.” His father turned and started walking, leaving Gar to follow with a pit in his stomach.

“What’s up?” Hopefully he wasn’t getting another lecture on how he failed to kill Drake. One of those was bad enough.

“In a minute.”

Gar frowned behind his mask, but obediently followed.

To his surprise, they went not back to their apartment, but up the winding passages that ultimately led to the roof of one of the apartment buildings.

Even more to his surprise, his father sat on the roof tiles and patted the spot next to him.

Gar sat, the cold chill of the tiles already seeping through his coat.

“People have been asking me why you haven’t graduated yet.” 

Gar swallowed. “Oh.” He huddled deeper into his coat, staring at the moon. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing.”

“Really? How’d you get away with that?”

“They always tried talking to me while I was busy.” Dad Bluemoon shrugged. “Besides, how would I explain to them your training got delayed while we spent those years trying to lose Mir’s hitmen?”

“Pretty much like that.” Gar leaned back on the roof, continuing to watch the moon.

A soft chuckle. “Really?”

Gar just glanced at him, smiling despite himself.

“On a more serious note, there are a lot who think you need a punishment for Detective Patrick killing Drake rather than you.”

Gar sighed, returning his gaze to the moon. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not the only one on your side here.” Dad Bluemoon laid next to Gar with a soft grunt. “There were several others who pointed out that you nearly died. More than who think you need a punishment.”

Gar made a face. “That’s... reassuring? I guess?”

“Well, the ones who want you punished think your graduation should be delayed another year.”

Gar sighed. “Really? I’m already older than most everyone else.”

“All you have to do is your assigned kill. Successfully. Without dying yourself.”

Gar glanced over again, this time feeling a bit irritated. “I tried. There aren’t a lot of options when you have a gun against your head.”

“I know.” A pause. “We decided your new target. Technically, you have until the last day of the year, but I’d recommend doing it a lot sooner than that.”

“What? Already?” Gar blinked.

“Be careful.” Dad Bluemoon pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to Gar. “And don’t mess up this time.”

Gar quietly took it. As he unfolded it to see the name on it—the name of the chief at his precinct—he frowned. “Why him?” Why was he being told his second chance at his pre-graduation kill was the chief?

“He’s starting to get suspicious, and he’s not the kind of man to let this kind of thing slide.” Dad Bluemoon slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, then stood. “You can do it, Gar. You have the necessary skills to do this right. To do it well.”

“I already failed once.” Gar slipped the paper into his coat pocket and stood himself. “What if I fail again?”

“You won’t. You’re in complete control of this one. You decide how to do it, and when. Be as brutal or as kind as you want.” Dad Bluemoon dipped his head. “I’ll be here for advice.”

Gar took a deep breath and bundled himself tighter in his coat once again.

“Alright.”

He could do this.


	51. The King of Clubs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>   
>  Today's tunes:  
> Darn That Dream- Dexter Gordon

The Family’s headquarters had recently fallen quiet for the night. Amanda and Matthias had sought their beds; Luna was already asleep. Zombie had ensured the regular guards were in position before leaving for his own home.

And PJ and Jordan... well, nobody was quite sure where they were. It was obvious enough PJ was visiting a speakeasy, at least on the nights he stumbled home smelling of alcohol (assuming he wasn’t being hauled inside, completely unaware of anything, by a grumbling Jordan). On the nights he didn’t... well, it was certainly possible he was pushing aside his broken heart by visiting an Orchid.

He wouldn’t be the first.

Up until now, the godfather had allowed this to continue. Jordan followed PJ all night, and, after PJ was sound asleep, would push aside his own weariness to let the godfather know how PJ had been doing—if he seemed to be moving on from the dreadful emptiness left by this mysterious  _ signorina _ at all.

The answers varied. Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Sometimes Jordan would make an ‘eehhhh’ sound and a so-so gesture. More often than not, it was a shrug and a, “He’s doing better than he was a month ago.”

It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

Yami quietly stood from the bedside chair, nodded curtly, and went off to complete his orders. Before he was even out of the room, exhaustion was dragging the godfather’s eyes closed.

He would rest. He would rest until Yami returned with PJ and Jordan.

\-----

A peculiar air had come over Freddy’s these days. Those who were new didn’t notice it very much, but those who had been before kept flicking their gaze to where Madame Foxglove and Wade had used to sit.

Now, it was just Wiishu and Sophie.

PJ took his drink from Ethan with a nod of thanks, his attention already straying to Sophie once again. It had been almost impossible to take his eyes off of her all night. So far, she hadn’t seemed to notice. He always fixed his gaze on his bass when she looked over.

“You still love her, don’t you?” Jack asked softly, leaning on a knee.

PJ nodded, taking a sip. “Never stopped.” His voice was just as soft.

A pause as Ethan returned, this time offering a drink to Dan, who had turned his attention to running his hand across the piano casing itself instead of joining in on the conversation.

Dan took it with barely a nod.

At the table with Jordan, Phil frowned.

“You know, Peej...” Jack glanced over. “Woosher talked to me after we got home yesterday morning. She’d been talking with Sophie, and apparently you were the topic all night long.”

PJ glanced over in alarm.

“Neither of us know why you two broke up, no. That’s not our business, and neither one of you have offered much information.” Jack took a sip of his own drink. “But it doesn’t seem right that neither of you are happy.”

“She won’t take me back, Jack, and I’m not going to beg.”

“Of course not.” Jack’s gaze flicked to the piano as Phil walked up and started whispering to Dan. “And it’s your life, you can do what you want about it and I won’t be bothered, as long as you’re happy.” Jack shrugged. “Just felt like you should know.”

PJ made a face and swirled his drink in his glass. He could feel Jordan watching him from across the room, like he always did whenever he had an extended conversation with Jack, or with someone he recognized from the McLaughlin Boys.

It happened quite a bit. PJ had never quite realized how many members of the Irish mob were regular patrons of Freddy’s until he’d started bringing Jordan.

It made him rather glad he had Jordan with him, in case being a part of the Family ever got out somehow. He didn’t bring his pistol to Freddy’s, out of courtesy to Mark, but Jordan- Jordan had any number of weapons hidden in his clothes. (Mark knew what and where they all were; Jordan had shown him out of courtesy.) And if his involvement in the Family got out... well, it would be a miracle if both PJ and Jordan got out of there alive.

“Are you sure?” Phil’s voice broke into PJ’s thoughts, and he glanced to see Dan giving a half-hearted shrug.

Phil made a concerned face. “Get your stuff, then. I’ll tell Wilford.”

Dan downed the rest of his drink in one go, grimaced, and left the stage with nothing more than a hand lifted in farewell.

“I worry about him,” Jack murmured. “He’s gotten so quiet lately.”

PJ nodded, taking another sip of his drink. “Stopped smiling nearly as much, too.”

“So did you.” Jack glanced over.

PJ frowned, then stood himself. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Jack dipped his head and turned his attention to watching the room.

PJ, on the other hand, made his way to Sophie.

Sophie instantly fixed her gaze on the table, and Wiishu narrowed her eyes.

“Miss Newton, may I have a moment of your time?” PJ did his best not to swallow under Wiishu’s fierce gaze.

Sophie’s glanced up, eyes wide and full of hurt.

“It won’t be long at all.” Because if it was, PJ would likely collapse on the spot and start crying all over again.

Sophie’s gaze flicked to Wiishu, who glared harder at PJ. Then, she gestured to the empty seat across the table from her—effectively putting Wiishu between them.

PJ sat, keeping his eyes on Sophie.

“What do you want, PJ.”

“I came to apologize.”

Sophie’s eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing.

“After couple’s night, when we stopped dating, I did a rather horrible job of explaining myself. I can’t do any better now, but I wish I could. You deserve a better answer.”

Sophie’s mouth tightened, and PJ had to swallow to keep a sob from tearing out of him. “Thank you for the time we had.”

PJ stood and gave Sophie one last smile, then turned to return to the stage.

Instead, he just about ran into Jordan.

“We have to go.” Jordan’s expression was deadly serious.

“What? Why?”

Jordan tilted his head, gaze flicking to the kitchen entrance to Freddy’s. “Just a glance.”

PJ obeyed, merely glancing over his shoulder.

He just about dropped his drink as he spotted Yami leaning against the wall, eyes fixed unwaveringly on him with an unreadable expression on his face.

With a mental string of curse words going a mile a minute, PJ gave Jordan a nod and returned to the stage, where he set his drink aside and quickly put his bass away.

“Is something wrong?” Jack asked quietly. “Is that guy a problem?” So he’d noticed Yami, too.

“No, just what him being here means.” PJ reached for his coat.

“Your uncle?”

PJ gave a nod, even as Jordan walked up behind him.

Jack winced. 

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it back.” PJ pulled on his coat, buttoning it as quickly as he could. “It just-”

“Don’t worry about it, Peej.” Jack picked up PJ’s drink, but the action didn’t hide his own swallow. “I’ll let Wilford know. You go do what you need to.”

“Thank you.”

“Good luck, my friend. If you ever need us, we’ll be here.”

PJ gave Jack a half-smile, but then Jordan’s hand was on his back and he was being pushed out of Freddy’s.

The chill of November’s dying days stripped any confidence PJ had left, and he took a gasping breath that he instantly regretted.

“Jordan.” Yami’s voice stopped them before they’d even had the chance to exit the alley, and PJ glanced over his shoulder to see Yami’s gaze once again boring into them. “I’ll be taking him back. You get whatever car you used to get here. And get back quickly. The godfather wants a word with you.”

Jordan’s body tensed and his face paled, but he merely dipped his head. His hand dropped from PJ’s back, sliding into his other coat pocket.

A few quick steps and Yami’s hand was gripping PJ’s arm too tight and dragging him along—his left arm, sending faint tingles of pain dancing up and down it.

Yami didn’t say anything as he steered PJ to his automobile, or as he roughly shoved him into the front passenger seat, or as he took the wheel and started driving.

He didn’t say anything as they exited South Boston.

He didn’t say anything as they crossed into the newly-claimed territory.

He didn’t say anything as they passed into the neighborhood PJ had spent so much of his life in.

He didn’t say anything as they pulled up to the house, Jordan’s car already parked on the street.

Then he turned off the engine and turned and twisted his hands on the steering wheel. His eyes closed, and he frowned.

And he didn’t say anything.

PJ slowly started to inch his hand towards the door handle. Just before he reached it, Yami sighed.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

PJ’s hand dropped from the handle, and he blinked at Yami.

“What? No.”

Yami lifted his head and met PJ’s eyes. “Then what possessed you to visit a speakeasy that deep in Irish territory?”

PJ hesitated, then took a deep breath. Before he could say anything, though, Yami was continuing.

“Don’t- don’t say anything. Leave it for the godfather.” He opened his door and stepped out. “Warm yourself up. You’re in for a long talk with him.” A pause. “And don’t make me have Zombie hunt you down.”

Yami’s door slammed, and he was halfway up the walk to the house before PJ even fully processed what had been said.

Slowly, PJ got out of the car and entered the house himself. If his hands were shaking as he took off his coat, nobody was around to comment on it. Jordan must already be deep inside the walls of the Family headquarters.

It was only as PJ walked the familiar halls to the godfather’s room—he would be called there sooner or later, after all—that he heard Luna’s faint crying.

Curious despite himself, and despite the trouble he was surely in, PJ investigated.

“It’s not healthy. You know that.” Amanda’s voice cut clearly through the door to their rooms, even over Luna’s wails. “It’s been months.”

PJ paused with his hand on the door.

“It’s fine, Amanda. They haven’t told me to do that.” Matthias’ voice came just as clearly, though he sounded more obviously irritated.

“Months, Matt. I’ve never heard of anyone being on pain drugs that long.”

“We’ve never met anyone else who lost their leg, either.”

“That doesn’t change things.”

“Of course it does! A leg is a fifth of your body!”

Both Matthias’ and Amanda’s voices were getting louder, and so were Luna’s wails. PJ, however, was frowning now.

He’d thought Matthias hadn’t been given any pain medication for his leg for quite some time. But apparently that wasn’t the case—even though it should have been.

PJ silently cursed, even as the faint sounds of Amanda trying to calm Luna floated through the door. How had he missed this? Matthias and Amanda had moved to headquarters so they could get more help, not to let PJ overlook obvious signs of some kind of addiction forming.

He was supposed to  _ help _ them. They were part of his Family. It was his job.

And he’d failed.

“Peej.”

PJ glanced over his shoulder to see Jordan standing there, shoulders set and a terrified look in his eyes.

“It’s your turn.” Jordan ducked his head, avoiding PJ’s gaze. He edged past PJ and disappeared down the hall.

PJ closed his eyes with a groan and turned away from the door.

He would find a way to help them. He would.

Just... not now.

The godfather’s gaze followed PJ as he entered the room and closed the door before moving to the foot of the bed, but something was off, like he’d started moving his eyes a second too late and the delay just continued throughout.

The godfather gestured for PJ to take a seat in the bedside chair, his hand and arm shaking wildly.

PJ swallowed, but obeyed.

_ “How long, PJ?” _ The godfather paused to draw in a shaky breath.  _ “How long has this stupid, idiotic, reckless adventure of yours been going on? Weeks? Months?” _

His voice was reedy and quiet. Some words slurred together. Nonetheless, they still carried that heavy power PJ had bowed under so many times in the past.

_ “I taught you better than this. You risk your life, venturing into the Irish territory? Fine. Just know you risk the lives of the whole Family, under you.”  _ The godfather coughed weakly.  _ “My time is coming to a close. Soon—sooner than we hoped, but so it is. _

_ “I must know that I can rely on you, PJ,” _ he rasped, his dim eyes piercing PJ’s,  _ “I must know that I won’t pass with a black mark on my heart, because I’ve entrusted the lives and livelihoods of so many to a sad, broken drunk who spends half his nights in the Orchid’s greenhouses, and the other half off cavorting in a speakeasy.” _

PJ opened his mouth, his mind racing, but the godfather continued.

_ “Or so I had been led to believe.” _ The words hung in the air, and PJ felt something deep in his chest freeze.  _ “Oh, I don’t doubt you visit a speakeasy—you stagger home with the stench hanging around you, there’s no mistaking it—but Yami told me something very interesting, the moment he returned.” _

Whatever was in his chest was now weighing him down, pinning him to his seat. The godfather had a gleam in his eyes, and for a split second PJ  _ hated _ him. He hated the power this old man had over him.

_ “And what is that?” _ PJ replied, his tongue thick and clumsy in his dry mouth.

_ “Only the name of your… of your girl.” _ His lips had curled as he said those words.  _ “Yami recognized her, you see. Sophie Newton.” _

The godfather stared at PJ.  _ “Newton,” _ he repeated. His bitter chuckle narrowly avoided becoming a coughing fit.  _ “And to think I’d encouraged you. I had allowed you your lapses as you chased after this… this American woman. If only I had known. You’re willing to endanger the Family by bringing someone such as her in? Are you willing to break that rule, that law, and forsake the Family? Forsake your  _ life _?” _

PJ had closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look at the godfather. He didn’t want the godfather to see the battle waging behind his eyes.

The godfather was right. But also… this was Sophie they were talking about. Sophie. The woman he loved.

_ “PJ!” _ the godfather snapped, somehow looking both feeble and furious.  _ “You will listen to me.” _

PJ couldn’t bring himself to speak. If he opened his mouth, he was afraid the whirling mess of emotions would spill out- drown him where he stood. So he nodded, his eyes flickering.

_ “I know it was the reckless love of a young mind that has clouded you,” _ the godfather continued, clasping his shaking hands in his lap, _ “and so I don’t posses the heart to punish you.” _

PJ looked up. Would-

_ “However. Jordan Maron. He was tasked to protect you, and I made it very clear: that included from yourself. He failed, and his failure placed the whole Family at risk. You will kill him.” _

That heavy thing in his chest shattered. PJ sat there, gaping, trying to form words. Any word.

“What!?” It was a quiet gasp; barely a word.

The godfather frowned at the English.

_ “You will kill him. He is no longer a part of the Family; he’s betrayed my trust. And carrying out this order? That will solidify my trust in you.” _

PJ didn’t need to hear any more; the hidden threats were all too clear to him.

The godfather raised a quivering hand, and waved at the door.  _ “I have told you what to do. Now go; leave me. I’m tired. Let me sleep.” _

In the five steps it took PJ to reach the door, the godfather had drifted off.

PJ stood there, looking back at the old man, his hand on the door knob. The godfather had been a father figure to him. A mentor. He still was, PJ supposed.

He had instilled in PJ, at a very young age, the importance of family. And, of course, of the Family. He had taught PJ about duty, and what it meant to be a leader. What it meant to take others’ lives into your hands, and to make a decision that could change a person’s live in an instant.

PJ knew what family was. They were there to support, and be supported.

Love, and be loved.

For most of his life, his definition of family included the godfather.

No longer.

PJ strode across the room, and stood at the old man’s bedside. For once, PJ’s hands were steady and firm as they gripped one of the many extra pillows piled about.

He was calm as he placed the pillow over the old man’s face. He remained calm when, many moments later, the old man started struggling. PJ only pressed his hand down harder, over where his nose and mouth would be.

The final moments were the hardest. Although sick and weak, he somehow was finding strength, and PJ had to straddle his body—press down on the pillow with his full weight behind it. As the old man’s attempts faded, and the frantic thrashing of the bedsheets quieted, PJ became aware of the near-silent sobs issuing from his own mouth.

He stayed like that, curled over the still and cooling form, arms still trapping the pillow over top the old man’s face. He stayed there for longer than he had to—and when he finally moved, it was to stumble away from the bed and sink to the floor.

PJ sat there for a while. It was late; no one came looking. His gaze remained on the shape under the covers.

Everything was still.


	52. "Mobster Murders Multiply"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>   
>  Today's tunes:  
> ‘Round Midnight- Miles Davis

_ Sunday, December 2, 1923 _

_ For years now, the Liguori family has been quiet—they strike from time to time to make a point, but much of their operations lie away from the public view. _

_ Very suddenly, however, this has changed. In the past few days alone, they have been responsible for the deaths of nearly forty people: members of the McLaughlin Boys, law enforcement, and civilians. _

_ There is no obvious reason for this sudden change, though several possibilities exist. Whatever the reason, it’s clear this particular set of organized crime has just been biding their time until they were sure they could have the upper hand. _

_ This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil. _

_ Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column! _

“How much land have we lost?” Jack trailed his fingers along the map in front of him. “And how many?”

“So far, only a couple of blocks here and there.” Link frowned at the map. 

Alright. It hurt, but they couldn’t be losing all that many men to the Italians that way.

“We’ve lost almost twenty-five of our men this month.”

Jack’s head snapped up, and Link flinched.

“Twenty-five.”

Link nodded slowly.

“This  _ month?” _ His voice nearly cracked, and Jack blinked. It was the only the second. How had they lost  _ twenty-five _ men in two days?

Link nodded again, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Just before I came to talk to you, I got the news.” He glanced at the map for a moment, clearly steeling himself. “Around two in the morning, two of our gambling rings were smashed into and everyone inside filled with lead.”

Jack had to grab onto the table. He was feeling a little lightheaded; he thought he might be in shock. “What? Who?” He said this absently, and without thinking—because he knew who. The Italians. “How did they-”

“We don’t know.” Link shook his head, brow furrowing. “I take a lot of care keeping that sort of information from the noodles.”

And yet, they’d found out. They’d found out, and now the mob was losing territory; losing men. Men,  _ Jack’s men _ , were out there dying to the Italians.

Jack stared furiously at the map, blinking back the tears. He wouldn’t cry, not right now. He had time later to grieve those who’d died.

Right now, he needed to protect his own.

He needed more information.

“Which two got hit?” His voice was surprisingly steady.

Link quietly tapped two locations on the map: one near the contested area (at least, the area that they’d lost and Jack was going regain, as soon as he had a plan), and one uncomfortably close to Freddy’s.

They’d both been around since before Jack had even come to America.

Jack scowled at the map.

“This one here,” Link tapped the one near the contested area again. “They could have found this one by accident.”

Jack tapped the one near Freddy’s. “Not this one, though. They wouldn’t be wandering around so deep in our territory. Not when we’d kill them if they stepped in the door.”

Link shrugged. “I don’t know, Jack. It’s been around for so long I’m pretty sure half the city knows about it.”

It certainly had been one of the biggest dens.

“Any witnesses at either place?” Jack glanced up at Link again.

“A few. We’ve tussled with the  _ capo _ who went here.” Link tapped the first gambling ring on the map again. “Last time I ran into him, someone called him ‘Zombie’.”

Fitting a man going by that name would kill so many.

“And here?” Jack glanced at the place close to Freddy’s again.

“Nobody inside was left alive, but one person showed up late and managed to hide unseen.” Link sighed. “They never saw the  _ capo _ leading the men, and it was one of the older spuds, so they wouldn’t have had the experience with these guys to recognize a voice. Assuming it’s someone we’ve met before, at least.”

One of the spuds. Jack’s hand tightened on the table, and he had to take a deep breath to keep from losing his temper.

“Were any of the spuds hurt?” If they had been, Jack would personally hunt down each and every member of the mafia and shoot them, one by one, himself.

“Fortunately, no. Only the one was close enough, and he’s shaken, but fine.”

A great deal of worry left Jack at that—although he still had enough to start some kind of worry bank.

“We can’t handle this just between the two of us. Not when you have to be at Freddy’s every night,” Link said slowly. “Do you think-”

Jack opened his eyes. “Is he here?”

“Yes.”

He stood, putting both hands flat on the table. “Alright. Send him in. And then go find Emma. She might have some kind of information that’ll help us.”

Link dipped his head and left the room.

A few minutes later, Rhett stepped in.

Jack didn’t even glance up from studying the map, and he didn’t say anything.

Rhett, by some miracle, didn’t say anything either.

The silence stretched on, until, finally, Jack stood from hunching over the map and met Rhett’s eyes.

Rhett flinched slightly.

Jack tapped his fingers on the table slowly, Rhett’s shoulders tensing with each tap.

“Are you ready to be responsible again, Rhett?”

Jack’s question clearly took Rhett by surprise, as he blinked and took a half-step backwards. Then: “Yes, I am.”

“Are you ready to obey orders?” Jack crossed his arms. “With the noodles at our doorstep, the last thing we need is insurrection tearing us apart from the inside.”

Rhett dipped his head and swallowed. “Yes. I am.”

Jack stepped around the desk and towards Rhett. Rhett flinched at the footsteps, but his eyes remained steady.

Jack met his gaze, allowing all the weight he had as the boss to fill the space between them.

“Do you understand what will happen if you disobey me again?”

Rhett swallowed, his gaze flicking down to where Jack kept his pistol. “Yes. I do. And I won’t.”

“Good.” Jack crossed his arms. “In that case, you’re being restored to full duty. Has Link updated you on what’s going on?”

Rhett shook his head.

“Alright. I’ll fill you in.”

The sun was setting by the time Rhett had been caught up, and by the time Link returned with Emma in tow.

“What do you want?” Emma crossed her arms.

“Rumours have it you’ve been snooping around the noodles’ headquarters recently. Have anything that we might be interested in?”

Emma put a hand on her hip. “We both know how this works, alright? What’re you offering in return? Cash isn’t going to cut it, not for this information.”

“What do you need?” Jack leaned back on his desk.

Emma was silent for a minute, emotions warring behind her eyes, before she gave a curt nod.

“Protection. Guarantee me a place to hide if things go belly-up, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, but leaned forward. Protection, he could do.

“You’ve got a deal.”

Emma nodded again, this time slowly.

“Alright. Their godfather is dying. Slowly; but he’s getting there. Unless their mysterious underboss has decided to off ‘im to promote himself.”

Good information—but not worth risking men to protect her. Jack leaned forward and folded his arms.

“Discovered one of their  _ capos _ , too.” Emma made a disgusted face. “I don’t know how he did it, but Sparkle-pants is one of them, now. Probably shot his way in.”

Jack just about fell off the desk. “Sparkle-pants?” He knew that referred to Jordan, to PJ’s bodyguard, but- No. It had to be referring to someone else.

“That traitor, Moran. He’s one of theirs now. In control of men and everything.”

Leaning against the wall next to the door, Link frowned.

“Thank you.” Jack’s voice was remarkably steady. “You've got your protection.”

His words were a clear dismissal. Emma dipped her head and walked out without another word.

“That explains how they knew where the gambling rings were,” Rhett murmured. “I knew I should have killed him after he left.”

Jack closed his eyes, trying to appear composed and thoughtful. “It would.”

Why would Jordan, a  _ capo _ , be PJ’s bodyguard?

A sinking feeling started in the vicinity of Jack's heart.

“I've got to think on this. You two go and sort out your duties again.” Jack tilted his head slightly, trying to channel nerves into something besides the inevitable shaking hands.

One set of footsteps left.

“Seán...” Link hesitated. Clearly, the few nights he'd been at Freddy's had him understanding what Jack was trying not to realize.

“Go, Link.” Jack crossed his arms. “I’ll call for you before I head over tonight.”

Another hesitation, and then the second set of footsteps was gone.

Jack took a deep breath, his hands balling into fists.

PJ’s bodyguard was a  _ capo _ in the mafia. There was no way PJ’s uncle, whoever that was, would be able to afford that kind of service. Not a  _ capo. _

No, the only way that would be possible was if PJ-

Jack cursed softly, even as tears started to prick at his eyes. 

A soft whimper sounded, and Jack glanced to see Chica poking her head into the room. Jack’s head dipped to the side, and a shaky sigh escaped him.

“Come here, girl.” Jack crouched and wiggled his fingers at her.

She lolled out her tongue and obeyed, putting her head on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack’s fingers dug into her fur, and he held back a sob. The others could still hear him; he wouldn’t dare cry.

He’d wondered about PJ, back when they’d first met. The last name had been a dead giveaway—but he’d been so kind; so understanding. He’d listened to everyone. He’d been horrified at the stories of violence rocking the streets of Boston.

Jack had convinced himself PJ was just a regular guy.

And now there was no denying otherwise. No  _ capo _ would be bodyguarding a regular guy. Or even a regular member of the mafia.

Or even another  _ capo. _

Jack hugged Chica desperately, trying to stop himself before he came to the next realization.

For a while, it worked. He distracted himself with the softness of her fur and the sounds of her pants and doggy sounds, with how she looked as they walked to Freddy’s, with how much she adored Mark and followed him around all night, how she would put a paw on the chair that used to be PJ’s or push it around, how she looked as she fell asleep after their return to the warehouse.

Jack sat on the mattress he and Wiishu used as a bed and covered his mouth with a hand, trying to hold back a sob. He didn’t want to wake Wiishu.

PJ-

PJ had to be the underboss.

The man who’d been playing with Jack, who’d befriended him, was his greatest enemy.

A muffled sob tore out of Jack, and Wiishu shifted on the bed. Jack tried to lower his arm and look like he’d just sat down, but her hand slipped onto his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice was soft, and full of concern.

Jack just nested his head in his arms, trying to keep from waking the rest of the warehouse.

Had PJ known who Jack was?

Had PJ befriended him just to get a new angle on the mob?

Had their entire friendship been a sham?

And, the worst thought of all:

When Jack next saw PJ, for the good of the mob, he would need to kill him.


	53. Rising Rumo(u)rs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
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>  Today's tunes:  
> Lonnie’s Lament- John Coltrane Quartet

Had it been raining as the old godfather’s coffin was lowered into the ground, PJ would have considered that an acceptable weather phenomenon. However, it was winter, and too cold for rain.

It wasn’t snowing, either.

The icy ground crunched underfoot, and snow-soaked mud squelched around the grave site.

PJ didn’t really pay attention to any of the words being said: neither those in memory of the old godfather, nor the murmurs around him. His gaze was fixed on the coffin, mentally reliving the moment when the old man had stopped struggling.

PJ had killed before. He’d killed in self-defense, and in cold blood.

That wasn’t what was bothering him.

He was now in charge of the entirety of Boston’s mafia.

The funeral ended, leaving just a few people at the grave. PJ, of course, stood there still contemplating the scope of his new responsibilities. Zombie, on one side of PJ, looked just as troubled as PJ, but he’d just become the new underboss, so he too had a lot of new responsibilities on his plate.

PJ would have chosen Jordan, but it had been a fight to let him become a  _ capo. _ Putting a non-Italian in a position where they could become the godfather... that wouldn’t go over well.

Speaking of Jordan, he was the third person there. He wasn’t looking at the grave at all, but standing a few feet away with his hands clasped behind his back. Had PJ bothered to look, he would have seen Jordan’s men scattered around the nearby graves: pretending to visit the dead, but really protecting the living.

And, standing on PJ’s other side, was Yami. He wasn’t looking at the grave, either; instead he was studying PJ with the slightest of frowns on his face.

Out of the four, Zombie was the first to leave, straightening his shoulders as he walked away. He had another hit on one of the potatoes’ gambling rings to take care of that night—at least until a replacement  _ capo _ could be decided on.

PJ had no idea who would be taking that role.

He really hadn’t thought the old godfather’s murder through very well.

He would never go somewhere without a bodyguard for the rest of his life. He would never get to return to Freddy’s. He would never even be allowed that deep into enemy territory.

He would never be able to see Sophie again, unless it was through the silver screen.

He would be expected to find a nice Italian girl and settle down, if for no other reason than the future of the Family.

He had the power of the entire Family at his fingertips—power that was growing with each block of territory Zombie and Jordan took from the Russians or the Irish.

He was a prisoner of it.

And still, he didn’t regret his actions.

If he hadn’t taken control from the old godfather, he’d be trying to fill the spaces of two  _ capos _ right now, because he would have had to kill Jordan.

The mud squelched softly, and a hand touched PJ’s shoulder. PJ glanced up to see Yami looking at him.

Well, at least he wasn’t doing this completely alone. That was something.

_ “PJ...” _ Yami’s eyes met PJ’s, and a chill ran through him.  _ “I know what you did to him.” _ He glanced at the new grave, and an even deeper chill ran through PJ.

_ “The three of us will need to talk about your.... drinking... habits soon. Until then, know I am here to advise and do what I can to help you.” _ Yami’s eyes were serious, but they didn’t once shift to accusation or anger.  _ “We need to ensure we can’t be hurt while we’re recovering.” _

PJ nodded, not trusting his voice. 

Yami returned the nod, then walked off.

PJ turned to Jordan, who stepped forward with a concerned look.

“You doing okay?” Jordan asked.

PJ swallowed, then straightened his shoulders and his coat in one motion. “Yes. Come on. We’ve things to do.”

\-----

The soft clink of Molly’s spoon against her teacup was the only sound for a minute as she stood in the doorway of her and Wade’s bedroom, eyes fixed on the sleeping figure inside.

By some miracle, Wade was still alive. They’d treated him to the best of their abilities, but none of them were doctors or nurses. It was no surprise they hadn’t been able to do a highly professional job.

Most of his bruises had faded, at least; though they weren’t at all healed completely. That was something.

No, Molly reminded herself as she took a sip, the biggest threat to Wade right now was infection—and the sheer amount of blood he’d lost. The first, they could fight off with Minx’s knowledge of herbs and plants. The second... well, Wade would recover in time.

Hopefully.

Molly forced herself to turn away from the door and return to work. On the way to her office, she glanced into the living room, only to see Minx calmly sitting in one of the chairs, reading one of her books.

She rolled her eyes and went in.

“How is he?” Minx didn’t glance up.

“Alive.”

Minx closed the book. “Well, that’s more than I can say for the mafia’s godfather.” She crossed her legs and clasped her hands in her lap. “Good choice on the poison.”

Molly nodded. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the new one?”

“So far, just rumours.” Minx shrugged. “Rumours like he’s not that much older than you.”

Molly took a sip of her tea, thinking about that.

Then she nodded.

“The rumours could be wrong, but I’d hazard to say they’re not.” Minx added.

“If he really is my age, then he’s nothing to push to the side and ignore.” Molly leaned against the doorframe. “Let’s make sure everyone at the Greenhouses has the contingency plans memorized.”

Minx dipped her head.

\-----

Cry gave Maya a scratch between the ears, only for her to wander off and bump into a wall. Apparently she hadn’t memorized the house yet.

“I wish I could have gone,” Marzia murmured from her seat across the living room table. She was referring to the old godfather’s funeral, but only she and Cry knew that. Neither of the pugs were privy to that knowledge.

Not that they would have cared. They were busy being pugs.

“I wish you could have gone, too.” Cry frowned. “But I really do appreciate not having to kill people to protect Felix.”

“We don’t know that’s how things would have gone.”

Cry tapped a finger on his mask. “People already don’t like you; or Felix for loving you. If word got out you used to work for the mafia... I’d be killing a lot of people.”

Marzia sighed and slumped in her seat. “He’s so clueless, sometimes. He doesn’t know that about me, he doesn’t know anything about your past, and he didn’t even ask me what was on that letter when he caught me burning it.”

“He’s a busy man.”

Marzia groaned and dropped her head back. “I know, I know. And he tries hard. I’m just glad he didn’t see what was on the letter.”

“As long as you don’t get another one, it’ll be okay.”

\-----

Jack had slowly become less animated in the days since Emma had given her information on the mafia. Most everyone had noticed; from Wiishu, to Rhett and Link, to Mark.

Only one of them knew why.

Link was the only one to have come to the same realization as Jack: that PJ had to be mafia.

And, despite the others pestering him, Link didn’t say anything about it.

“We lost another gambling ring. And they forced us back almost another two blocks these past few nights.” Link’s voice was soft, sad, as he and Jack looked at the map again.

Jack swore under his breath.

“They haven’t shown any signs of stopping. And Maron, he has to be finding the rings for them, because they just took out one of our newer dens.” Link frowned. “Not so many casualties this time. Most of our men ran.”

Jack swallowed. In the grand scheme of things, a couple of blocks along the border wasn’t going to hurt the mob too much. No; it was the loss of the men and the gambling rings. Those were by far the safest of their operations—at least, they had been.

“Are we taking any of them out?”

“They’ve been careful, at least so far.”

Jack grimaced, but said nothing.

Link hesitated, shifting his arm slightly. It was impossible to see the bandage around it with his coat on, but Jack knew it was there.

“How’d you get hurt?” Probably something to do with the gambling ring, seeing as Link was the one to oversee those.

“I was there. Moran was too.” Link made a face. “We saw each other at the same time and I barely managed to dodge his shot.”

Jack muttered a curse.

“...There’s more.”

Jack muttered another curse, a touch more vehemently this time.

“Some of the comments by the noodles... I think they just switched godfathers. The old one died and a new one took his place.”

Great. Now they had to deal with someone new, and they wouldn’t know his-

Jack slowly lifted his head, trying to keep his face calm. “I don’t suppose they said anything about this new one?”

Link shook his head. “Nothing I haven’t already told you.”

Jordan was a  _ capo. _ Someone like that would only bodyguard another member of the mafia, and an important one at that. If Jack had his information right, the only positions above  _ capo _ were the underboss and godfather.

PJ had to have been the underboss.

Which meant-

Jack cursed, slamming his hand into the table.

What cruel irony. The boss of the McLaughlin Boys and the godfather of the Liguori Family had once been friends.

\-----

Ohm was silent as he and Vanoss walked through the familiar halls of Boston’s Faceless headquarters. Ohm had been called back in; probably so the Wolf could make sure Ohm wasn’t breaking his probation and doing any sort of illegal activity (at least, nothing explicitly forbidden by the Faceless—and nothing had happened like that yet).

Vanoss had volunteered to go with him. He was the only member of the BBC in good standing with the Faceless, but he didn’t mind.

Not that he was being given assignments, either.

Vanoss wiggled the fingers of the arm in the sling. His shoulder was definitely on its way to healing, but it was still a while from being there.

“How’s it feel?” Ohm’s head turned slightly towards Vanoss.

“It’s getting there.” Vanoss made a face. “Doesn’t hurt so much now. It’s just useless.”

Ohm made some vague noise of agreement. “Still want to beat up Del and Toonz for it?”

Vanoss rolled his eyes. “They’ve already got their punishment, Ohm.”

Ohm shrugged. “So?”

Vanoss shook his head. Del and Toonz were on probation now, too, since they’d abandoned their job of protecting the Wolf Cub on Halloween night. They already had enough to deal with.

Of course, this didn’t mean Vanoss wasn’t planning on punching them once his arm was better.

“Do you know why you were called in?” This time, Vanoss was the one to ask.

Ohm shrugged, then nodded. He offered no details, and Vanoss didn’t prod any further. That, at least, had been a skill he’d managed to actually pick up in his time as a Faceless.

They continued their walk in silence. This time, the trainees with the masquerade and lion masks were nowhere to be seen, and neither were purple- or fox-masked. Granted, it was cold. And night. Not many would be interested in training in those conditions.

Most of the offices of Boston’s head Faceless were quiet and dark, meaning they’d probably already retired to their apartments for the night. At the far end of the hallway, a single light shone through an open door.

Ohm knocked on the doorframe, and a murmur of voices exchanged. Vanoss sat on the floor next to the door and leaned against the wall, grimacing at the discomfort of stone pressing into his shoulder.

He was definitely going to punch Del and Toonz. If they’d been doing their job, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt fighting off the guys waiting in the alley to attack the Wolf Pup. And the Wolf Pup might not have gotten hurt, either.

A trenchcoat brushed Vanoss’ other shoulder as someone emerged from the Wolf’s office, and he glanced up to see the Wolf Pup take the few steps to the other side of the hallway, a familiar corgi following along.

Perhaps his gaze lingered a bit too long as the Wolf Pup settled down on the floor on the other side of the hall and began absently scritching the corgi—or maybe it was because the Wolf Pup was a half-trained detective paired with one of the smartest men in all of Boston—but the Wolf Pup tilted his head slightly and said, “You weren’t expecting to see me?”

Vanoss shook his head. “Kinda expected you to be out chasing a speakeasy.”

The Wolf Pup shrugged one shoulder. “Normally, yeah. It got too cold to concentrate, though, and he-” a pronoun that clearly referred to his partner- “had things to do.”

“How do you actually do that, by the way? How do you find that information?”

The Wolf Pup smiled faintly. “Oh, I’m sure you have all the information I’d need for this particular one, as do several others, but that would ruin the fun of it.” He paused. “Also, it would be hard to explain how I suddenly had all the missing pieces after one night.”

Vanoss chuckled. “If you say so.” He paused, then pressed forward. “Have you heard about the new Liguori godfather?”

The Wolf Pup nodded. “I have, yes.”

“He’s supposed to be just barely older than we are! I can’t imagine running a mob in a couple of years.”

The Wolf Pup shook his head. “He’s not the first. Nor is he the youngest to do so. I think Madame Foxglove was nineteen when she started the Orchids.”

“Good for her.”

“I’m more concerned about what a new godfather will do to how things work in this city. It hasn’t even been a full week, and they’re getting in border fights with the McLaughlin Boys.” The Wolf Pup frowned slightly. “Things are changing fast, and we might have to worry about repercussions.”

Vanoss frowned himself. “We’ll be fine.”

A pause.

“I hope.”

\-----

Mark hummed slightly as he wiped down the newly-vacated tables, even as Ethan checked with the few remaining customers to find out when they were planning on leaving. They were about to close the doors to the Tiny Box, which meant they were nearly ready to open the doors to Freddy’s.

Cold air swirled through the main floor, and Mark looked up to tell this new person they’d stopped accepting new customers, only to freeze when he saw who it was.

Tom pulled his nose out of his scarf and seemed to almost awkwardly smile at Mark.

Mark gestured for Tom to come over, and the elder Fischbach hesitated before complying.

“What brings you here?” Mark continued wiping off the table, though more slowly. He couldn’t have Tom here when he went to open up Freddy’s, so his only option was to slow down until Tom left.

“I... I wanted to apologize.” Tom sighed, and his eyes closed for the briefest of moments. For a split second, Mark was afraid Tom had pulled a him and was about to collapse, but then Tom’s eyes opened again just fine.

“I should have done something for Wade.” Tom grimaced. “I should have listened when you warned me, and now...”

Mark swallowed. He hadn’t visited Wade at home yet—he was trying to give him more time to recover before potentially exposing him to all sorts of sicknesses—but he’d gotten brief updates from JP each time the kid dropped off more alcohol. 

Wade was so close to death, it was some sort of miracle every time Mark got news of Wade still breathing. He couldn’t imagine how awful Wade looked. He didn’t  _ want _ to imagine how bad he looked—but he also couldn’t stop thinking about how JP walked in, his face tight with worry; and how easy it would be for Wade to just... stop breathing.

“They’re trying to find him.” Tom took a step forward, eyes fixed on Mark. “If they can find him still alive... I’ll make sure he and Mir are nowhere near each other.”

Mark swallowed again and scrubbed at a dried and crusty spill on the table. “It’s been almost a week, Tom. Do you really think they’ll find him?” Hopefully they wouldn’t. Wade would only get in more legal trouble for escaping prison.

“I hope so.” And then, so quietly Mark almost missed it, “I don’t want to be the reason you lose your best friend.”

A pause, where Mark turned it all over in his mind. Wade had survived getting stabbed, losing blood, walking miles in the cold, cutting up his feet and getting beaten up—surely he could survive the recovery of it all? Right?

“Carpett wants to know if you know where Wade might have gone, or how he got away.”

Mark looked up in alarm at Tom’s words. “What?”

Tom shrugged uneasily. “You’re close. Carpett figured if anyone knew, you did.” His eyes flicked to meet Mark’s. “I know you’re not involved with it at all. You care for him, yeah, but... you know the law.”

Mark almost slumped onto the table. What a relief. Tom understood.

“I was at my second job all that night.” Mark shook his head. “I didn’t even know he’d gone and escaped until the next day here.”

Tom straightened. “Right, your second job. I can’t keep you from that.” He gave the faintest of smiles, though that recurring worry for Mark was showing in his eyes.

“It’s alright. I have to finish shutting this place down first.” Mark returned his attention to the table, then nodded and moved over to the next one.

Tom followed.

“I kind of feel like the police won’t have to worry about Wade, though. It’s been a week. It’d take a miracle for him to have survived this long.” And a miracle it was, and it would take so many more to make sure Wade kept surviving. To make sure he would pull through, with no infections, or broken bones healing incorrectly; with Wade actually waking up for more than a few minutes and being coherent... all things JP had mentioned worrying about in their brief talks.

Tom sighed. “There’s still hope, Mark.”

Mark tilted his head. “There’s always hope. I just hope it’s in the right place.”

“Besides,” Tom continued, “the police themselves are more concerned with the rumors going around: a new godfather in the Liguori family, supposedly. At least, a funeral for the old one. I don’t know if they’ve chosen a replacement yet.”

Probably. “Your guess is as good as mine.” Mark frowned. “What’ll that mean for you? A new godfather, I mean.”

“Maybe they’ll be actually able to catch him now that he’s inexperienced. Other than that... I don’t know. Nothing much.”

Mark tilted his head. “Fair.”

“I’m more concerned about you, though.”

Mark glanced up, but said nothing. They’d been getting along so well, he didn’t want to start a fight now if they could avoid it.

“Don’t think I haven’t gotten the reports of the mob fights that have suddenly jumped up in number recently.” Tom shook his head, worry clear in his gaze. “They’re getting closer to the Tiny Box, Mark. What’ll happen if they come here?”

“Then I’ll call the bulls and offer them all a scone to get them to sit still long enough.”

Tom frowned at him.

“I’ll be careful,” Mark promised, “but I don’t think they’ll have any reason to target the Tiny Box.”

_ “Someone _ broke the windows Halloween night.”

“I don’t think that someone has come back here since.” Mark shrugged as he stood, examining the table.

Yep. It looked like a table.

Good job, Mark.

“Mark-” Tom cut himself off. “Mark, does anyone on your staff even have a way to defend themselves or customers, if it comes to that?”

Well, there  _ was _ Tyler, but Mark still shook his head. “We’ll throw things from the kitchen at them.”

Tom chuckled. “Quite the mental image.”

“Thanks.” Mark paused and gave Tom a small smile of his own. “I appreciate the concern. I’ll talk with mom about it.”

Tom smiled back.


	54. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
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>  Today's tunes:  
> I Surrender, Dear - Thelonius Monk

“Any weekend plans?”

Gar looked up at Patrck’s voice, smiling when he saw his friend leaning in the doorway to his and MatPat’s office.

“Work, mostly; though my dad and I are decorating for Christmas after I get home tonight.” Gar paused and tilted his head. “Wait, what are you doing here? I thought you were still working nights.”

Patrck grinned. “Nope. I’m back to the day shift. Not to say I won’t work the occasional night, but that’s alright.” He paused and glanced around the room. “Where’s MatPat?”

“He headed home already.” Gar shuffled through the papers covering his desk. “I’m just trying to get everything organized for the morning.”

“...have you found Mrs. Patrick? Have you found… anything?”

Gar paused in his shuffling and shook his head. “No. Whoever took her knew what they were doing. There’s not a single clue as to where she might be.”

Patrck frowned. “Do you know who might have done it?”

Gar shrugged. “Most likely? Madame Foxglove. There’s not many who would be interested in causing trouble for the Patricks, and have the know-how to drug them both.”

“Ah.” Patrck stood and stretched. “Well, I’ve got to get home to Marie, but have fun with your vague weekend plans.”

“You too, Pat.”

Patrck waved and walked off.

Gar returned to his work, organizing his and MatPat’s combined notes. These went here, these ones needed a note on the bottom mentioning that they could probably be related to this set of notes over here but belonged mainly in this set, these ones were obviously incomplete and their next actions should be filling in the gaps in the information, these ones-

A light knock on the doorframe broke Gar’s concentration.

He looked up to see the chief leaning in the doorframe, just like Patrck had been earlier.

“It’s late, kid,” the chief said. “You should head home. It’ll all still be there in the morning.”

Gar paused and glanced at the clock on the wall. Nine. Not too terribly late, but definitely the latest he’d been here without MatPat.

“I lost track of time.” Gar stood and gave the chief an apologetic smile.

“It’s alright. Happens to the best of us.” The chief waited as Gar pulled on his coat. “Detective Patrick will have a whole dictionary full of words for me if I let you keep going, though.”

Gar chuckled as the weight of his pockets bumped into his legs. “He’d have even more for me, sir.”

The chief clapped a hand on Gar’s back. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the night shift start coming up with complaints.”

Once outside, Gar bade farewell to the chief and turned his own way. As soon as he turned the corner, though, he darted into an alley and quickly scaled the barrels and discarded items until he could reach a half-broken ladder. In just a moment, he was climbing onto the roof of the apartment building.

Quickly, he reached into one of his coat pockets and pulled out one of the things that had repeatedly bumped into his legs as he’d run. His fingers traced the familiar design of his black and gray wolf mask before he slipped it on.

Good. Now he was incognito.

He kept low to the roofs as he darted across them, frequently peeking over the edge to find the chief on the streets below. 

The chief kept to the main streets for a while, making it significantly easier to follow along on the rooftops. When he turned onto a street heading to a more residential area, Gar chose safety over speed and carefully dropped down to various lower ledges until he was on the ground once more.

His mask back in his pocket (had to stay inconspicuous on the streets), Gar followed the chief again.

The chief never looked back.

Gar could have gone straight to the chief’s house after MatPat left for the day and waited for the guy to arrive home, but he didn’t particularly want to do that. He was, after all, trying to avoid having to kill the chief’s wife to keep from witnesses.

She was supposed to be gone for the weekend, visiting some of their grown-up children, but Gar wasn’t risking anything. She could be there, and he didn’t need to get caught by her.

So here he was. Following the chief. While the chief got relaxed in his house, Gar would scope it out and make sure the wife wasn’t home. And then, after the chief’s guard was down, he would take care of his assignment.

As the night continued to grow colder, and it got harder and harder to see the chief as the street lights became more infrequent, Gar forced himself to maintain his distance. If the chief looked back, he had to look like just a regular person.

Which he was.

Definitely.

The wind started to pick up, and Gar grimaced and pulled himself tighter into his coat. This wasn’t going to be fun at all—he was going to freeze in the time it took him to make sure the chief’s wife wasn’t at home, and that was going to make his job all the harder.

Hopefully he’d be able to have hot cocoa when he got home.

The chief glanced over his shoulder as he unlocked the door to his house, but Gar kept his head down and kept walking along the street as if he had no goals but to get to his own home.

And then the chief went inside.

His door would be locked, of course, but Gar didn’t want to go through the door. He knew how to pick locks well enough; it just wasn’t part of the plan.

Gar slipped his mask on, his breath catching at how cold it was. Then he stepped inside the footprints trudging through the snow in front of the chief’s house, careful not to disturb any of the surrounding snow itself.

Then he jumped up, catching the branch of the overhead tree. Snow slid off, splatting wetly into the ground below, as Gar scrambled onto the branches and then up as high as he could.

As expected, the silhouette of the chief came to the window and the curtain moved aside a bit. The chief stood there for a minute, as Gar scrunched himself into the smallest ball possible on a branch some fifteen feet in the air and tried not to move. He was tucked firmly behind the trunk. The chief wouldn’t see him.

Apparently satisfied, the chief let the curtain drop, and his silhouette moved away from the window.

Gar waited for quite some time for a second silhouette to move in front of any of the windows, but none came. The chief just settled in a chair somewhere, sipping some sort of drink.

Gar flexed his fingers, wincing as they complained of the cold. He spent a few minutes flexing them and rubbing them to make sure they would function as he needed them to, then started descending the tree. 

More snow slid, even as flakes began to fall from the sky, but the chief didn’t move to investigate this time.

Gar dropped from the tree and walked over to what he presumed was the flower garden in more green times of the year, then bent down and picked up a rock a bit bigger than his fist. He bounced it in his hand a few times before nodding. This would do the job just fine.

Gar walked over to the biggest window on the back side of the house and scanned for signs of another person inside the house, only to once again come up blank.

Alright. Time to get this started.

Gar walked back around the house a few times, just to make a number of confusing footprints, then went to the window easiest to climb through and hurled the rock.

The window  _ cracked _ , then shattered completely as Gar pushed on it. The glass pressed up against his gloves, edges uncomfortably sharp even through the leather.

He hauled himself through the window, even as rushed footsteps came from the other room. Gar twisted to the wall next to the door just in time for it to swing open and the chief to walk in, gun in front of him.

He took a step into the room. Another step, starting to turn to look around the room.

Their eyes met for a second, and the chief’s widened at the sight of the mask. Then Gar stepped forward himself, quickly pulling the chief into a chokehold rather like the one Drake had put him in so many weeks ago.

The chief struggled, of course; tried to pull up his gun and shoot, but Gar just leaned into the chokehold, patiently waiting. The chief went limp.

Now he was on a time limit.

Gar hauled the chief to the chair in the room, pulling a ball of sturdy twine out of his pocket as he went. As quickly as he could, he tied the chief to the chair, wrapping the twine so breaking out would be impossible.

The chief’s eyes were slowly starting to drift open now, and Gar winced a little under his mask in sympathy. He knew the pain the chief was feeling all too well.

Not that it would last long.

Gar stood from tying the twine, this time pulling out his knife. Leaning on the chair for leverage, he dug it into the chief’s neck before yanking it out.

That was quite a lot of blood in a lot of places that wasn’t inside the human body.

The chief’s body slumped in the seat. He hadn’t even had the chance to scream.

It only took a glance around the room for Gar to tell nothing in here would serve his purpose, so he ventured around the blood splatters into the hallways and other rooms. In the living room, next to the fireplace, was a cast iron fire poker.

Perfect.

He stepped between the blood spots again, returning to the body of the chief.

Then he took a deep breath and bounced the poker in hand, trying to get a feel for its weight and balance.

And then he swung it.

Bones crunched and the chief’s body squished in ways Gar really hadn’t wanted to think about being possible. 

It was many minutes later when finally, Gar dropped the poker, panting from the effort that had been required. Bones were sturdier than people gave them credit for.

Still trying to catch his breath, Gar glanced around the room once more. Blood was everywhere. The chief’s body was pretty much a skin sack of blood and meat and bone fragments tied to a chair. The poker was on the floor next to the body. The window was broken inwards, the glass scattered across the floor. There were plenty of footsteps outside.

It looked every bit like a brutal revenge crime. The chief’s wife—widow, now—wouldn’t be mistaken as the person who had done this.

Gar cleaned the blood off his knife by wiping it on the chief’s shoulder, then dropped it back in his pocket and hopped out the window he’d come in.

Now he could report the chief as dead. And then he could curl up with Dante and sleep.

\-----

Gar’s father didn’t ask any questions about how Gar had gotten the job done, merely slid a steaming cup of hot cocoa across the table as Gar gave his report.

When Gar was done, he nodded.

“When you get time next, then, head to the mask makers.” Gar’s father smiled. “Let them know to make your mask in time for the 1924 graduation.”

Gar sighed wearily, but nodded. He’d done it. He’d met all the requirements to become a full Faceless. On January 1, he would get his second mask, be eligible for all sorts of things out of his reach as a trainee.

“In the meantime,” Gar’s father stood from his chair, “I’m going to bed. You should too. You still have work tomorrow.”

“I know.” Gar took another sip of his drink, smiling as the warmth spread through him. “I’ll go soon.”

He hadn’t gotten any blood on him, but he still wanted to take a shower before turning in for the night.

That way, nothing of the murder would remain but what Gar deliberately left.


	55. The Queen of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>   
> 

Stephanie Patrick didn’t say anything as Molly entered the room, but her grip on the teacup tightened as her gaze followed Molly’s approach.

Molly settled casually on the couch opposite the chair Steph was sitting in, even as the last of the Orchids vacated the room. They could have stayed if they wanted. Certainly those who were interested in befriending Steph would wait outside the room , unless they had a client come in.

They were in Minx and Krism’s Greenhouse, where Steph was being kept in one of the spare rooms. Molly had stopped by once before, the night Wade was arrested, to make sure Stephanie had settled in comfortably, but hadn’t actually spoken to her.

“What more do you want from me?” Steph finally broke the silence, setting her teacup and saucer down with a loud clack. “You’ve taken me from my husband and put me here, where I don’t know who I can trust.”

Molly shrugged. “I’m trying to protect my own.”

Steph crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “So you do run a speakeasy.”

Molly shook her head. “No. I don’t have the time for that. I do sponsor one, though.” She took a sip of her own tea, smiling softly. Minx was good, but Krism must have made this batch. “I get that you don’t want to trust me. That’s fine. I wouldn’t, if I was in your position.” She dipped her head, setting her teacup down and settling her hands in her lap. “Let’s do it this way, then. For every question I ask you, you can ask me one, and I’ll answer honestly.”

Steph frowned. Then she nodded.

Good.

“How much do you know about your husband’s work?”

“Not much. He tells me what he can, but it’s always very vague. He’s not allowed to say any sort of details until the case is over.” Steph shrugged. “Usually he’s eager to show me his notes at that point.”

Molly nodded. She’d expected as much. She always had to pay Dlive or Entoan extra to get them to talk about ongoing investigations, because it was extra risk.

“Your turn.”

Steph hesitated, then met Molly’s gaze. “Did you kill Jason Parker?”

Molly shook her head. “I had nothing to do with his death. I didn’t kill him, I didn’t give any orders for him to be killed, and I wasn’t even aware foul play was involved until recently.”

Steph blinked. “Why not?”

Molly shrugged. “He was always quiet, and never caused an issue with anyone. I simply never thought to look into his death.”

Steph settled back in her seat and frowned, clearly pondering this new information.

“You asked two questions.” Molly leaned forward. “So, I will too. I understand you don’t know much about your husband’s cases, not while they’re ongoing.”

Steph nodded.

“Does he tell you how much progress he makes?”

Steph shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes he gets home so tired he can barely eat before he’s asleep. He spends more time making sure I know he loves me than he does talking about work.”

Molly smiled. “He’s a good man.”

Steph blinked. “I’m... I didn’t expect you to say that.”

“Why, because he’s my enemy? Only because he’s trying to find something I’ve sunk quite a bit of investment into.” Molly shrugged. “That doesn’t make him any less of a good man. A good husband, at least. Don’t deal with many of those in my line of work.”

Steph paused, seeming to sink deeper into the chair as she thought on that.

Molly let her, taking another sip of tea. She wasn’t in any rush. She wasn’t here to make a friend out of Steph—kidnapping her had already made that realistically impossible—but she did want to take away the worst of the edge of being held somewhere against your will.

Or at least as much as possible.

“How long has your husband been chasing his current speakeasy?” Molly returned her attention to the questions.

Steph looked up. “September, I think. Right around that poker game at Kjellberg’s.” She paused and gave Molly a suspicious look. “Wait. You were there, weren’t you?”

Molly nodded. “I played the second half of the game.”

Steph frowned again. “Huh. Okay.” She put a hand on the arm of the chair and began stroking it absently. (It was a very soft chair.) “Why did you kidnap me?”

“To slow him down. As I said earlier; he’s a good husband, and a good man. It didn’t take any investigative work at all to learn just how much he adores you.” She shrugged. “And this way, I don’t have to kill him.”

Steph’s eyes narrowed at that. “Don’t you dare kill him.”

“I have no reason to kill him, Mrs. Patrick. He’s just doing his job.”

Something flashed across Steph’s face, but it was gone before Molly could really analyze it. Some kind of fear, or perhaps anger.

“Don’t kill Detective Bluemoon, either.”

Molly chuckled. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

This time, what flashed across Steph’s face was clear confusion. “What? What do you mean?”

Molly took a sip of her tea and smiled at Steph over the rim of the cup.

Steph frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t have anyone skilled enough to kill him.” Molly swirled the dregs of her tea slightly. “Nor any interest in doing so—and even if I did, I’m not stupid.”

Steph’s frown deepened, clearly saving that piece of information for later.

That was fine.

Molly set her now-empty cup on the table between them. “Mrs. Patrick, I hope you understand I can’t return you to your husband any time soon.”

Steph made a face. “I hope you understand I hate it, and will try to escape if I get the chance.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else of you.” Molly tilted her head. “Which is why, whenever you elect to go outside, you’ll be very carefully watched and will have an escort.”

Steph looked up. “I’m allowed to go outside?”

“Within reason. You won’t be allowed anywhere near where your husband is expected to be, of course; or speak with anyone who’s not an Orchid. Either Minx or Krism will arrange the walks. Just speak with one of them.”

Steph slumped slightly at the initial rules, but nodded.

“And if you try to escape, you won’t be allowed outside anymore.” Molly shrugged. “Just as a precaution.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

Molly stood, then paused. “Before I go, I want to emphasize that while you’re being kept in a brothel, I don’t expect you to take on any clients at all. You’re happily married and being held against your will, after all.” She put a hand on her hip. “If a client sees you wandering around and decides they want you, you can either tell them you’re not taking clients that day, or simply tell them no. They should listen to either one. Especially if they’re a regular; they know the rules.”

“And if they don’t? Take no for an answer, I mean.” Steph swallowed.

Molly smiled a most nasty smile. “Run to Minx or Krism—or a fellow called Ritz, if he’s here. They’ll stop them. And then they’ll turn them over to me.”

Steph looked like she wanted to ask what would happen then, but clearly thought better of it and nodded quietly instead. “And if I want to just stay in my room all day?”

“You can do that. You have free reign of the Greenhouse.” Molly let her hand drop, and turned to walk out of the room. “Again, talk to Minx or Krism about that. They’ll be able to answer your specific questions.”

“Wait- Madame Foxglove.” The words practically spilled from Steph’s mouth, and Molly glanced over her shoulder to see Steph standing. “You seem to know what you’re doing, kidnapping me. Have you done it before?”

“While you are the first unwilling participant, no. This isn’t at all the first time I’ve done anything like this.”

And with that, Molly turned and walked out of the room.

\-----

Molly pressed a kiss to Wade’s forehead, unable to ease the ever-present worry when he didn’t stir. He was still weak, still in need of long periods of incredibly deep sleep. Still, she wished it was different. She wished he would open his eyes and look up at her, and smile.

He was doing significantly better than when he’d collapsed from pain and blood loss and exhaustion on the doorstep, at least.

Keeters jumped up beside Wade, curling into his side and setting his head on Wade’s hip—close to where he’d been stabbed weeks ago.

“Make sure he stays asleep, alright?” Molly gave Keeters a soft scratch between the ears. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I just- I can’t handle this alone. Brycelyn and JP try their best, and they’ve handled a lot of Orchids stuff, but I need more.” She wasn’t going to depend on two teenagers for emotional support. That wasn’t fair to either of them.

Keeters gave a slow blink and settled more firmly on Wade.

“Thank you.” Molly’s smile was shaky as she slowly backed out of the room and took one last look inside.

Wade was still asleep.

Alright.

Time to talk to Amy and Wiishu—even though they couldn’t heal Wade, they could still offer her comfort.

And with Wade unable to give her his smiles or his giant hugs, it was all she had.

\-----

The very first thing she noticed after walking into Freddy’s was that PJ was missing again. So was Dan, for that matter; but he and Phil didn’t come every night, so it wasn’t necessarily a sign of something being wrong.

PJ, however... she’d thought he was back for good.

Apparently not.

Molly frowned, making her way over to her usual table.

“Glad to see you again,” Wiishu greeted calmly. “How’s it going?”

Molly groaned and flopped into a chair. She could be as unladylike as she pleased. She owned this speakeasy, after all.

“That good, huh?” Wiishu leaned forward. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Molly sighed and sat up in her chair. “Mostly, it’s Wade.”

“Is he alright?”

“Other than recovering from almost dying from three or four different things?” Molly made a face. “He’s as well as you could expect him to be, I guess. It’s just... not as well as I’d like, is all.”

Wiishu gave a comforting pat. “It’ll be alright.” She paused and looked up at something. “You should probably update Mark. He’s been worried sick.”

Molly looked up herself to see Mark talking with Jack, both of them repeatedly gesturing at PJ’s empty chair. Mark looked worried, but Jack... Jack almost seemed hurt?

“I will. I just... need a distraction, first. What’ve you been drawing, lately?”

Wiishu smiled and reached into her bag, pulling out a notebook. Molly proceeded to ooo and ah over all of her friend’s art for a while, the two getting pulled into tangents about technique and practice studies quite frequently. Amy dropped in a few times and promised to show them her art some day; when she was off, and they all had the time.

Finally, Molly stood and pulled Mark aside to give him an update on Wade.

“You can come visit, you know. I can’t promise he’ll be awake, but he’s mostly coherent when he is.”

Mark hesitated. “Are you sure? I won’t tire him out?”

“It will be a short visit. He’s never awake for long, anyways.”

Mark slowly nodded, some of the worry leaving his face. “Alright. I’ll swing by soon. It’s going to be busy here until after Christmas, but I’ll do my best to visit right after the holiday rush.”

“That’s fine.” Molly smiled, and Mark smiled back.

“Thanks for letting me know how he’s doing.”

“Of course.”

It was nice knowing people cared, but... Molly was starting to hope nobody asked her about Wade again during her visit to Freddy’s. They cared, yes. Mark had been waiting patiently for news, and cared a lot—even when it clearly hurt him not knowing answers.

She almost didn’t want him to follow through on his promise. She almost wanted restaurant business to delay him even further than the two or three weeks, just so Wade was more recovered. She didn’t want Mark to feel the same kind of pain she felt whenever she saw Wade so injured and weak and so much not like himself. But she couldn’t deny it to him. Not if he really wanted to visit.

As Molly approached her table again, she realized there was someone else sitting there. 

“Good evening, Sophie.” Molly took her seat again.

“Good evening, Molly.” Sophie looked up from her thoughtful examination of PJ’s seat. 

“Something on your mind?”

“Just… just thinking.” Sophie took a breath and turned back to Molly. “Can I talk to you? Alone?”

“Sure.” Molly stood. “Let’s find some place nice and quiet.”

Sophie nodded and followed.

They ended up in the office, where Molly closed the door and leaned against it.

“What’s up?”

“What’s it like, having responsibility in a mob?”

Molly pursed her lips. “In my case, it means taking care of my own. I don’t make that much of a profit off my Greenhouses—Orchids get what they earn, outside of what we need for things like food and heat; and tips and bonuses tend to be dispersed between everyone in a particular Greenhouse. I make sure the Orchids are cared for and healthy, and they’re all there voluntarily. If a client breaks the rules, I have someone break them so they never do it again. I want them all to be safe and happy and feel like they’re surrounded by a family of their own choosing.” A pause. “Why?”

If she was right about her suspicions, Sophie wasn’t going to answer that. Sophie wouldn’t give PJ away like that.

“Family...” Sophie made a face.

That was that, then. PJ was a member of the mafia. And apparently in some sort of position of power, if Sophie was asking about responsibility. He couldn’t be the underboss, though. He’d never be able to sneak into Irish territory if that was the case. Probably a  _ capo _ .

And it was quite likely why they’d broken up.

“Leading a mob is a responsibility I can’t ignore, no matter how much I might want to some days. I couldn’t ignore it to cry when Wade got arrested, and I couldn’t ignore it to scream my frustrations to the sky when he showed up injured on my doorstep. I almost never take sick days, and I wouldn’t be able to at all if I didn’t have support from those closest to me.” She took a breath. “And if Wade hadn’t decided to join me after he got home from the war, I would have had to drop him.”

Sophie frowned faintly.

“Running a mob runs my life. At this point, I couldn’t get out of it if I wanted to.” She held back a sigh. “Fortunately for me, I want to stay—and that makes it so much easier. But that’s the reason I waited so long to bring JP into it all. I didn’t want him to grow up in it, and then decide when he was an adult that he didn’t want that life, but be unable to leave because of his responsibilities.”

Slowly, Sophie’s eyes widened, and she looked up. “It’d be like walking away from your blood family.”

“Assuming you have a good relationship with them, yes.”

Sophie nodded, slowly at first and then a little faster. “I see.” She met Molly’s eyes. “Thank you. That gave me a lot to think about.”

“Sure thing.”

Sophie moved as if to move past Molly and push through the door, but Molly didn’t move.

“Molly?” Sophie blinked. “What’s going on?”

“Look... I don’t know what choices you’re going to make based off that information, but... just know, if you ever feel like you’re in danger from anyone, drop me a dime. I’ll do my best to get you to safety.” She paused. “That includes from PJ. Or any of his Family.”

Sophie seemed to flinch a bit at that last word, but she swallowed and nodded. “Alright.”

Molly nodded and stood. “Let’s get back, then. Wiishu is probably wondering where we are by now.”

Sophie ducked out of the room, leaving Molly walking just a few feet behind. That was fine; Sophie needed some time to think anyways.

It also gave Molly the rather unique view of Jack tensing when Sophie returned to the room and watching her return to the table, barely noticeable conflicting emotions dancing across his face. If she hadn’t been looking right at him, and had experience in that kind of thing, she might not have noticed it.

The conflict stopped after a few seconds, settling into something Molly would cautiously identify as uncertain suspicion, and she surreptitiously walked faster until she was next to Sophie, her gun weighing comfortably in her dress pocket.


	56. All In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>  Today's Tune:  
> Little Man, You’ve Had a Busy Day - Chet Baker Sextet

PJ took a deep breath and glanced at the door of Freddy’s, even as Zombie settled himself in his car, watching them. As soon as they were inside, he’d be out, waiting for them.

“We can’t stay long,” Jordan murmured. “Only enough to say your goodbyes.”

PJ ducked his head, his expression somber as he examined his shoes. His hands were stuffed deep into his pockets and his fingers lightly traced along the warmed barrel of his gun. He never used to carry, even though he was an Italian deep in Irish territory. Now, it was practically mandatory. He knew Jordan at his side was armed to the teeth anyway, and Zombie was packing enough firepower to light up the whole speakeasy.

It wouldn’t come to that. The last thing PJ wanted out of this, had  _ ever  _ wanted, was to put these people in danger. He wanted to say goodbye. He couldn’t disappear out of their lives forever without so much as a reason. Hopefully, they would understand, and the questions would be kept to a minimum.

There were only so many excuses he could contrive.

PJ could feel Jordan growing antsy the longer they stood in the alley. He decided to stop torturing the man and stepped up to the door. After all Jordan had done, and all he had risked for him, the least he could do to return the favor was make this quick. Nevermind the fact he’d killed for the man; killed the  _ godfather _ , no less. Given up on his old way of life…

He shook himself. Dwelling on that now was pointless. He had to focus. The faster he got through this, the sooner he could move on. If his mind and heart would allow him, anyway. Just had to speed through it. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

With much hesitation, PJ knocked on the familiar door. He was met with equally familiar blue eyes, and though he knew he would be recognized, he murmured the password under his breath; for old time’s sake. The slot in the door slid shut and it was swiftly opened to reveal a stone-faced Tyler. However, the hint of relief mixed with concern could be seen in his eyes by those skilled enough to recognize it. They told PJ  _ everything. _

So he’d been missed again. Well, tonight he would put a stop to their worries.

“PJ. Started to wonder if we’d ever see you here again. Come in, it’s freezing out there.” Tyler’s tone, though stiff and a bit gruff as he spotted Jordan, was not unkind. He stepped aside to let the two men in and shut the door behind them, locking out the evening’s chill. “I’d go hunt down Wilford. He’ll want to see you.”

PJ gave a slight nod, flexing his fingers within the confines of his pockets in some effort to expel his anxious energy.

“Of course. Thanks, Tyler.” The boxer turned back to guard the door, and PJ moved deeper into the speakeasy. It was still early, and only a few patrons dotted the tables and bar. Good. It would have been more awkward to do this if the joint was packed, especially since a majority of the regulars enjoyed listening to PJ play, and likely would have tried jeering him into doing so. He didn’t have time for that tonight—he was lucky he had time to come by at all.

But he was the godfather now. And that meant he could push his luck; press his influence, and weasel out one more trip. Zombie wasn’t pleased about it, and they’d kept the visit under wraps in regards to the  _ capos.  _ No point in stressing them.

Wilford found him almost before he could find Wilford. He was barely five steps into the speakeasy when there was a rush of air and the man was suddenly at his other side, a warm smile on his face and relief in his eyes. Seeing the emotion again, more profoundly this time, made PJ swallow tightly. He crumpled the regret pooling in his gut into a tight little ball and shoved it deep, deep down. Godfathers weren’t allowed regret. They needed to be the strongest in the Family, and their decisions needed to be concrete. He couldn’t pussyfoot his way out of this.

“Wilford…”

“PJ! I didn’t think you were going to come. I know you said you needed some time for your family, but it’s been so long…. How are you doing? You didn’t force yourself to come back before you were ready, did you?” There was that genuine concern in Wilford’s voice. It made PJ’s heart writhe in his chest.

He tried not to let it show on his face, but judging by Jordan and Wilford’s mutual expressions, he wasn’t succeeding much.

“Of course I’d come back. I wouldn’t just leave without… saying goodbye. You’ve all done too much for me to earn that kind of cruelty.” PJ’s smile quivered, and he drew a breath in an effort to steady himself. It helped, but only a little bit.

“I’ll be fine, Wilford. Really. I appreciate your concern, but there’s no need for it. Besides, I’ve… found myself between a real rock and a hard place, I’m afraid.” He sent Jordan a furtive glance, but couldn’t get a read on what he might be thinking.

Wilford’s excited smile dripped into a frown. “Is everything alright? You didn’t get in trouble with the wrong people, did you? PJ…”

PJ was quick to shake his head. “No, no, nothing like that. I promise. It’s more that… well, remember how I mentioned my uncle ran an important family business? One that supported basically the whole Family?” He waited for Wilford’s nod, then continued. “He… he passed. The illness finally got to him, and we… he’s buried. It’s why it took me so long to come back. And…”

“PJ… PJ, I’m so sorry. Are you sure you’re alright? Maybe we should sit down.” The somber tone and immediate empathy weren’t surprising, coming from Wilford. PJ tried to soak it in without feeling incredibly guilty.

“No, that’s alright. I can’t stay long, I just… with my uncle gone, it falls to me to run the business. I was… supposed to pick it up after him. He trained me how to do it, so… there’s no one else. And it’s a lot of work, so I just don’t feel I’d have the time…”

There was a tense pause between them, but Wilford wasn’t stupid. It didn’t take him long to fit the pieces together; it merely took him time to find the words. “...This is literally your goodbye. You’re not coming back to Freddy’s.”

PJ’s head ducked down again, but only briefly. It was a habit he had to break, now that he was the godfather. The godfather bowed his head to almost no one—certainly not a civilian. He forced himself to look Wilford in the eye. He was already lying to the man, and basically abandoning everything he’d been offered for so long now. The least he could do was be an adult about it all.

“I would want nothing more, but it’s just not possible. I have to be there for my Family. I know you’ll understand, but I’m still sorry for it. You’ve been so good to me all this time, Wilford…”

Wilford waved off the apology and shook his head.

“No need for any of that. You’re a good man, PJ. I’ve enjoyed having you here every night you could join us, whether you were playing or not. And I know for a fact I’m not the only one. I do regret you can’t stay with us, but… that’s life, right? Family comes first. I won’t fault you for it. Your bass  _ and  _ your face will be sorely missed, but we’ll be alright here. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

It was everything PJ had anticipated Wilford would say, but it still felt good to hear. His anxieties eased some, and he coaxed up a weak smile. Guilt and nostalgia-tinged sadness still weighed heavily upon him, but maybe now they’d be more manageable. If only the rest could go so smoothly.

“Thank you, Wilford. I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’re the best host I’ve ever known, and a good man yourself. Who knows? Maybe I will be able to stop by again, some day. Or… I’ll see you around?” PJ was quick to change his words when Jordan sent him a sharp look.

Wilford either didn’t notice the silent exchange, or decided to leave it between the two of them.

“I look forward to it. I’d offer you one more drink, but if you’re in a rush, you should probably track down the others instead. They’re all around here somewhere- well, except one or two. But the ones I know you want to say goodbye to  _ are  _ here.” It was his turn to give a pointed look: towards the empty stage with its abandoned instruments.

PJ felt that familiar squeeze in his chest again. “Y- yes. Of course. Thank you. I’ll try to catch you once more before I leave, but if I don’t…”

“If you don’t, I’ll take this as our goodbye. And good luck, PJ.” Wilford extended his hand, that same warm smile from before back on his face.

PJ felt his breath come a little easier, and he shook the proffered hand without hesitation. “And to you.” Neither man wanted to get any more emotional, so Wilford meandered off to tend to his few patrons as PJ made his way further into the speakeasy.

He ran into Ethan next, seeing as the waiter didn’t have much to do at the moment. He beamed at PJ even more openly than Wilford had and part of him had to marvel at the innocence and optimism radiating from that face. Of course he knew Ethan couldn’t be entirely innocent, working at a speakeasy and all, but looking at him made PJ feel so… old; worn out. Ethan, though needing to work, hosted no serious responsibilities (so far as PJ knew). He didn’t have the weight of an entire organization on his shoulders. There weren’t dozens of people depending on him. He hadn’t been receiving training his whole life to fit into a strict mold.

Or, so PJ believed. There were many secrets in Boston, but he liked to think Ethan wasn’t one of them.

“PJ! Didn’t have a clue when I’d see you around again, buddy. How you doing?” Ethan’s tone was as chipper as his expression when he gave PJ a hearty pat on the back in greeting.

PJ tried not to dwell on the fact it knocked more wind out of his tired body than it likely should have. Or that if any other Family member were present, Ethan would be on the floor for “attacking” the godfather. Would he ever be allowed such easy amicability again? Especially with non-Italians? He huddled deeper into his coat but tried to smile anyway.

“Evening, Ethan. Yeah, I finally made it out. Sorry if you were starting to worry-”

“Nah. I knew you had some family stuff going on so it’s no big deal. Just glad to see you back. You been getting enough sleep?” Ethan was more than ready to wave off PJ’s apology, but there was that concern again.

PJ must really look worse than he’d originally thought. “It’s… getting there. I just had a… well, a loss in the Family. It’s still weighing on me heavily, but I’ll work past it.”

“Oh.” Much of the cheer in Ethan’s expression and tone simmered down to something more sympathetic. “Sorry. That’s gotta be rough. I don’t blame you for taking so long away.” He reached out again, patting at PJ’s shoulder in a consoling gesture. It didn’t have much of an effect on PJ’s mood, but he appreciated it nonetheless. “But you’re back now, right? Playing music always seemed to cheer you up. Maybe it’ll help.”

PJ sighed, the weight of it crushing his lungs in his chest. He had to spit it out at some point. “I’m not staying, Ethan. The loss left the Family business without someone to keep tabs on it, and it’s a big job. A lot of the Family are relying on it for their income. I…”

“You have to step up.” Ethan finished for him, seeming to understand. When PJ could only bring himself to nod, Ethan continued, a ghost of his previously bright smile returning to his face. “It happens. Family’s important. No one here’s gonna blame you for leaving. And who knows? Maybe it’s not a permanent goodbye. Right? I mean… you can always stop by and visit The Tiny Box.” There was a hopeful tinge to Ethan’s trailing words, and his eyebrows quirked up.

PJ had to resist the powerful urge to snort his amusement. Ethan was ever the optimist. That kind of attitude made PJ a little jealous, but it would have been disastrous to host as the godfather anyway. Though he knew it was basically a lie, he gave another nod.

“Maybe. I’ll see what I can do.”

Ethan’s smile blossomed back into a full-blown grin.

“That’s all I ask. Are you at least sticking around tonight? Just one more time?”

“Wish I could. But things are already chaotic enough after the death. I have a lot of work to do- I only made time to say goodbye.” That, at least, was the truth.

“Well, then… goodbye, PJ. I hope to see you again eventually, if not soon.” Like Wilford, Ethan extended his hand for PJ to shake.

He took it just as gladly, though it was a little less formal than the one he’d shared with Wilford. He was going to miss the easy, light-hearted friendship.

“Me too. See you, Ethan.” PJ let go, and watched as Ethan wandered off to deal with some new patrons. The waiter shot him one more happy wave before fully returning to his business, and PJ couldn’t help but give the smallest of waves back.

He found Dan sitting at a table in the corner with Phil. PJ didn’t know the reporter much beyond their shared time on the stage, but he figured he may as well take advantage of the fact he was present. He knew Phil even less, yet the man gave a cheerful smile and wave in greeting as he approached.

Dan, in contrast, seemed a bit focused on his drink. That, or his arms folded atop the table. There was a stormy, pensive, almost far-off expression on his face; it was as if he wasn’t entirely  _ there.  _ PJ wished he could be more concerned, but it would just be a waste of energy at this point. He wouldn’t be back, and he wouldn’t be around long enough to provide much consolation or assistance. Chances of encountering Dan again on the streets were about as slim as running into anyone else from the speakeasy. PJ’s new life came with a cage, even if no one would dare to phrase it that way.

“Evening.” PJ hoped his greeting might shake Dan from whatever stupor he was in, but he didn’t so much as blink. He felt that same pull, that desire to help, but forcefully squashed it down. Thankfully, Phil was a little more alert.

“Evening. Uh, don’t mind Dan. He’s been feeling a little… down, lately. Y’know.” Phil gestured vaguely with a hand before giving Dan a slight nudge with his elbow. The action was gentle, though. Clearly, he didn’t want to disturb Dan, but he probably knew Dan would kick himself later if he just completely ignored PJ’s presence now. “Dan. PJ’s here.”

Finally, Dan seemed to shake himself a little, and he lifted his gaze to look at PJ. Dan appeared as exhausted as PJ felt, if not even moreso. It left him internally wincing in sympathy. There were heavy bags under those dark eyes and he was paler than usual. Maybe he was getting sick.

“Oh. Hi. Sorry.” The words were blunt and nearly devoid of emotion.

PJ couldn’t find it in himself to be offended by the lackluster apology or Dan’s behavior. He had no idea what Phil might have been referring to with his hesitant words and vague gesturing, but clearly it was taking a serious toll on Dan. He’d make this quick.

“It’s alright. I just wanted to stop by and let you know, I won’t be coming back to Freddy’s anymore.”

Phil blinked and sat up a bit straighter in his seat. “Aw, what? No way.”

“...Why?” Dan looked a little more alive at the news; curiosity and his own brand of concern more than anything. “You alright?”

PJ was growing very tired of that question, no matter how well meaning it might be. He resisted the urge to drag a hand down his face. Stay strong; the godfather must always remain strong.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing dangerous, I promise.” Another wince on the inside; what a bold-faced lie. “Just… Family business. I won’t have time for Freddy’s anymore, and I wanted to say goodbye. You’ve been a great bandmate all this time, and it didn’t feel right to just leave you hanging. I’m sure you’ll keep making jazzy music with Jack just fine without me.”

Dan was frowning, and Phil was pouting a little. Obviously, the news was affecting them differently. Dan was the first to speak.

“I…  see…. Right. Well, good luck, then.” He ducked his head back down after that, marking himself finished with the conversation, and PJ felt a twinge of guilt.

Phil must have noticed it on his face, because his pout morphed into a reassuring smile. One of his hands shifted just enough so that his fingertips could touch against Dan’s arm.

“He does mean it. And good luck from me too. I’m sure you’ll be successful with… whatever it is you’re doing. Don’t give up the bass though, alright? You’re one of the best I’ve ever heard. It’d be a shame for the talent to go to waste.”

PJ’s ears might have been deceiving him, but he thought he heard Dan provide the softest of grunts in agreement. He pushed up that smile again; a smile that was feeling more and more like plastic with every use.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Phil. Thanks. You two take care.”

Phil gave a nod. PJ’s eyes lingered on Dan as he turned to walk away, but he couldn’t find any more words to offer. Whatever was going on, he’d have to trust Phil could take care of it. Jordan’s face was growing more tense. PJ took that as a sign he should probably hurry it up a little. Zombie would only wait for so long, and if he decided to come charging in…

Frightening thoughts of consequences and bloodshed and misunderstandings were shaken from the forefront of PJ’s mind when a hand abruptly touched his arm. Only years of training stopped him from flinching or jumping away on reflex. Jordan looked discouraged, but PJ ignored him in favor of the person the hand was attached to. Amy. There was a bittersweet look in her eyes and a subdued smile on her face.

“Hey, PJ. Wilford told me what’s going on…”

PJ stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets again. “Oh, that so?”

Amy gave a nod, and her smile softened some. “I just wanted to say goodbye myself. I know you’re probably in a hurry and making your rounds, but… you were good for this place. Good for Mark, and Jack, and a lot of others. I just wanted to thank you.”

PJ scoffed softly at that, feeling bashful at the unexpected gratitude. “I should be thanking all of you, honestly. Mark gave me the job, and you all helped me so much- these past few weeks especially. You didn’t have to… but you did. And I’ll never forget it. Even if… I don’t end up coming back.” He almost chewed at his lip, but silently scolded himself and forced out the words he’d been debating about instead. “I’m pretty sure you all saved me from myself, at least once, so… yeah. Thank you. Please tell Wilford again for me.”

“Of course.” Amy looked a little amused, but she didn’t tease PJ. She understood the importance and severity of the moment. Mark was a real lucky guy.

“Remember to take care of yourself, PJ. And if you can ever come back—or need to—we’ll be here.”

PJ wanted to thank her again, to spill his gratitude until he was hoarse. He had to settle for a nod. There were still two or three people he needed to see before Jordan ushered him out the door. Two of them were conveniently sharing a table. PJ tried not to focus too hard on the absence of one individual in particular. Wade’s arrest and subsequent disappearance were clearly taking a toll on his fiancée. A small, bitter part of him wondered if a successful assassination weeks ago would have spared them both the pain.

He would have hit himself for the thought, no matter how small, were he not in public.

Instead of indulging the temptation, PJ closed the distance between himself and the table. Jordan was shooting him questioning looks but he ignored them. Of course he spied Sophie sitting beside Madame Foxglove. Of course he recognized the anxiety and wariness cross her gorgeous features as he drew near. Of course he spotted Madame Foxglove’s flare of protectiveness.

The situation between Sophie and himself had not improved during his absence. If anything, the gaps in his presence at Freddy’s only served to broaden the rift between them. He didn’t have a single doubt Sophie attributed all of it to his “criminal activities.” If only she knew just how terribly right she was. How much deeper in the muck and mire PJ had sunk since their last meeting, since his apology. He wondered if she’d allow him to speak with her again. He wondered if Madame Foxglove would allow it.

“Evening, ladies; Madame Foxglove, Miss Newton.” It hurt so much to refer to Sophie that formally, but he didn’t dare use her first name. At least Jordan seemed to understand the tension in the air and had given PJ a bit more space for this particular conversation.

Both women were eyeing Jordan: Madame Foxglove with cool suspicion, Sophie with wariness. The former apparently deemed the allotted distance acceptable, because she shifted her blue eyes to PJ and smiled. “Good evening. What a surprise to see you here- not that it’s an unwelcome one.” Sophie looked as if she might refute that statement, but Madame Foxglove pressed on. “You’ve still got your coat on and everything. I’ve seen you wandering around the speakeasy…. You’re not here for the usual, are you?”

Little reminders of just how perceptive Madame Foxglove was could be truly unsettling. Sometimes PJ wondered how the woman had never caught on to the fact he’d placed a hit on not only her head, but that of her fiancé as well. Perhaps the corpses had something to do with it.

“Ah yeah, you caught me. I just stopped in to… well, to say goodbye.”

That caught Sophie’s attention, and PJ couldn’t help but watch as her head rose up in obvious alarm. Her pretty eyes were wide and her mouth opened, words no doubt on the tip of her tongue. There was a heady pause as she seemed to think better of it and swallowed them back down. Her gaze dropped to the table, and her hands moved from her lap to cross arms over her chest. It was “I’m closing myself off” and “I’m on the defense” body language if he’d ever seen it.

Madame Foxglove took it as a cue to carry on the conversation in Sophie’s stead.

“Goodbye? You mean you aren’t coming back? Have you grown so tired of us and our little speakeasy already, then?” There was a hint of teasing to her words, but also wonder and curiosity.

“What? No! That’s not… trust me, this isn’t… exactly what I want.” PJ shot Jordan another furtive glance, but the man was simply standing with his own arms crossed. His expression was neutral so PJ licked anxiously at his lips and continued. “I want to stay. I love coming here, you know that. I just… Family business is about to make coming here impossible for me. I’ll be too busy to do much of anything.” He didn’t miss how Sophie tensed noticeably at the word “Family” and felt his guts twist painfully in response.

Madame Foxglove had likely taken notice of the reaction too. Her eyes became a little more sharp, her posture a little more stiff.

“I see. That’s unfortunate. But, duty calls, right? I can understand that much of your situation. You’re going to be sorely missed here, PJ. By customers and workers alike. Are you certain there’s no way you could make some time for a visit or two?”

PJ shook his head. He’d already exhausted every possibility; every theory and strategy. Zombie wasn’t having it. And now, as the godfather, repeated absences would surely be noticed. People would get suspicious, they’d become concerned, doubts would weasel cracks into the foundation of everything they had built and set it to crumbling. He couldn’t risk it, not anymore. Not for anyone.

“I’m afraid not. There will just be too much on my plate to handle. The Family business needs all the attention I can give it. I have a lot of people depending on me now.” He huddled deeper into his coat, eyes shifting off to the side. He couldn’t bear to meet those piercing blues any longer.

Madame Foxglove didn’t appear satisfied; not in the least. However, she was as smart as she was perceptive. She could tell where pushing and prodding would be met with a brick wall. Slowly, a smile edged onto her features, and her blue eyes softened. “Well then, PJ. I suppose this is a goodbye. Try to take care of yourself, and best of luck with caring for your Family too. You have all our best wishes.”

PJ felt his heart skip a few beats. Had his ears just been playing tricks on him? Was he tired? Or had Madame Foxglove put a bit of extra emphasis on the word “family?” No, no, he was just too anxious. It was making him paranoid. Surely, she hadn’t a clue. Surely, if she did know, she wouldn’t just be sitting here politely conversing with him like this. No, it had to be his own mind deceiving him.

Maybe he should have taken Wilford up on his offer of a drink.

“Thank you. I’m sure they’ll all appreciate your blessing.”  _ And would appreciate it more if you were dead,  _ his brain helpfully tacked on. PJ internally winced. “Miss Newton…”

“I don’t…” Sophie interrupted him, her breath quivering up from her lungs. She still hadn’t looked at him- not since that glimmer of shock at his confession. It almost sounded like she was going to cry. “I don’t know if I want to hear it, PJ, please. Just… I’m sure there’s others you need to be saying goodbye to. Don’t feel the need to waste your time on me.”

PJ swore he felt his heart crush to pieces at her words. He knew his face had crumpled, but it was impossible for him to stop or repair. It was too suffocating of a verbal blow.

“Sophie…” The name was also past his lips before he could stop it. He wanted to reach for her, to hold her, to brush fingers at her rouged cheeks and tell her everything was going to be okay.

It wasn’t.

“PJ, I…”

“Mafia’s gotten to the point where they’re antagonizin’ innocent women now, have they?”

The Irish trill in that voice sent an electric jolt down PJ’s spine.  _ Jack.  _ The one person he’d been dying and simultaneously avoiding to meet. He’d known the Irishman was around; Wilford would have told him otherwise. However, he hadn’t spied a hint of him all night, which was an equal relief and concern.

Now, turning to face the voice, PJ wished Jack had just remained out of sight. Jack was leant up against a wall of the speakeasy, hands stuffed in his own pockets and hat brim resting low over his eyes. There was an indistinguishable expression on his face, but his eyes told all. As if the accusatory tone in his words wasn’t enough, there was a seething fire in those baby blues. Where Madame Foxglove had pierced through PJ with hers, Jack’s were clearly trying to set PJ aflame like a tinder box in a forest fire. He tensed, his stomach twisting with dismay and instantaneous denial. Jordan, near his side, was likely gripping at his gun.

No _. _

“Jack…”

_ No. _

“I honestly don’t know if I want ye to call me that anymore. It’s a nickname I reserve for  _ friends _ , after all.” Jack’s words had gained a frigid edge that turned PJ’s veins to ice.

**_This couldn’t be happening._ **

“Jack? What are you saying? I know I’m not going to be coming back around anymore, but isn’t that a little extreme?” The words stuck to his throat, his teeth, his tongue like the thickest molasses and it was all he could do to force them out. He’d heard the word Jack used: “mafia.” Specifically “mafia,” directed at him, without a hint of a tease or jape. No, only ice and venom and the splintered edge of broken trust. Still, he tried to deny it; tried to act as if he’d misheard, or hadn’t heard at all.

Jack gritted his teeth at PJ’s attempt to play dumb, fists clenching in his pockets. He pushed himself off the wall so he could face PJ fully with that fire still raging in his eyes. “Cut the crap,  _ noodle.  _ Maybe you’re still skippin’ ‘round, foolin’ everyone else in the place, but you aren’t sappin’ me. Not anymore.”

It wasn’t the first time Jack had called him a noodle, but never had the term been spat with such blatant hatred and upset. It was always just light-hearted teasing, like when PJ would call Jack a potato. To hear it used in such a way, almost in a derogatory manner, simultaneously added another layer of ice to his veins and set his chest ablaze with indignant fury. Nonetheless, he tried to maintain a cool head. Not only was it a necessary godfather trait, but the last thing he wanted to do on his final visit was get into a fight. Wilford deserved better than that.

“ _ Jack.  _ I don’t know what it is you’re trying to say here, but I think you should quit while you’re ahead. This isn’t exactly the place to-”

“Ta what? Call you out on yer bullshit? Ha! I think this is the  _ perfect  _ place fer it. Let  _ everybody  _ know what ye really are. What you’ve no doubt  _ done.  _ How can ye even show yer  _ mug  _ around here? Yer heart must be given the weather a right run for it’s money.” Jack sneered and snarled, making no efforts to lower his volume or subdue his tone.

They were beginning to draw unwanted attention. Both Madame Foxglove and Sophie were already watching raptly. Several other faces were turned their way, and Ethan was peering at them from across the room. Maybe, if the joint was fuller, it wouldn’t be so noticeable.

But there wasn’t any other commotion for people to follow; not even music being played as a suitable distraction. PJ felt as if they were on a stage in front of an audience, and the spotlight was turned directly upon him. Nearby, Jordan’s metaphorical hackles were raised, his face pinched into a tight, loathing expression focused on Jack. PJ’s stomach twisted.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Oh don’t I? I know  _ plenty.  _ Plenty enough ta know what I have to do now, before I letcha get away. I’ll be kicked an’ booted ta tatters before I let the damn  _ godfather  _ walk out that door.” Jack slid his hand from his pocket to reveal a gun, similar to the ones PJ and Jordan had concealed themselves. He didn’t hesitate to aim the barrel directly at PJ’s forehead.

PJ sucked in a tight breath as a flare of panic shook through him. He heard other gasps and brief cries of shock or dismay around the room, and he had to wonder if the gun had caused them, or Jack’s bold accusation. Everyone knew the rumors.  _ The old godfather passed. The new godfather is so young.  _ Perhaps, had Jack proposed this while the old godfather was still alive, PJ could easily laugh it off. No one would believe it. Then he’d only have the Irishman’s wrath to contend with.

Instead, there were whispers starting up once the initial shock wore off. Jack hadn’t fired immediately, and at first PJ thought it might be because Jack was experiencing a change of heart; having second thoughts. A soft click to his right dashed those hopes to pieces. Jordan had pulled out his own gun and had it trained on Jack. Obviously, if Jack pulled his trigger, Jordan was going to pull his next.

It was a stand-off.

“ _ Maron, _ ” Jack growled, “we both know my trigger finger’s faster. There’s a chance I could bump off the both of ye before you even get a shot off. For once in yer damned life, don’t be a blood traitor an’ let me put a quick end ta this. You an’ I both know if the godfather falls now, the Mafia’ll go with him. We could end this.” Jack wasn’t even looking at Jordan as he spoke. His blue eyes were locked onto PJ, as if he feared, were he to glance away for even a moment, his target would disappear.

PJ wished he could. The whispers were still running, buzzing in his ears alongside the rapid beating of his own heart. It wasn’t the first time he’d been held at gunpoint—definitely wouldn’t be the last—but it  _ was _ the first time someone he’d considered a friend had his finger on the trigger.

Pulling his own weapon at this point would be useless.

“Like I said, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve probably had too much to drink. Just because I’m Italian, that doesn’t mean-”

“Yer ‘uncle’s’ dead. Y gotta run the ‘Family business.’ You’ve been absent, supposedly ta deal with ‘Family business’ an’ yer sick ‘uncle’ and just coincidentally, it all lines up with Mafia happenin’s. Ye get a ‘bodyguard,’ even though you never needed one before. I bet yeh’ve even got some men outside, waitin’ fer ye. Am I right?” Jack wasn’t having it. Clearly, whatever evidence had tipped him off had also made up his mind.

“Seán. Put the gun down. You don’t want to do this. Not here, not like this,” Jordan intoned, his voice calm and deathly serious. The cool intent in his eyes matched the one in Jack’s, and PJ knew Jordan wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if given an opening.

_ “Don’t ye fuckin’ call me that ye stinkin’ traitor.”  _ Jack’s voice was a vile hiss and PJ thought he might shift targets for a moment. Unfortunately, Jack was smarter than that. Whether Jordan was intentionally trying to anger him or not, he wasn’t going to succeed in making him careless.

“Jack, he’s right.” Those blue eyes hardened at PJ’s words. “Whatever this is about, here isn’t the place to handle it. There’s too many innocent people around and Wilford would be-”

“Wilford deserves the fuckin’ truth, that’s what! This whole time, you’ve been lyin’ ta him. Lyin’ to all’a them. Lyin’ ta  _ me.  _ I should’ve known better than to trust a dirty-toothed  _ noodle.  _ Was it all just an act? Were ye tryin’ ta get information, or get in good this deep in Irish territory? By god, yeh’ve got no shame at all, haven’t ye? How do ye fuckin’  _ sleep  _ at night?! Oh. That’s right.” Jack’s eyes were still harder than stone, but a cruel smile curled up his lips.  _ “Ye don’t.” _

PJ stiffened. He could see Ethan, Wilford, Tyler; all edging at his peripheral, all anxiously watching. Of course they wanted to jump in and dispel tensions before anyone could get hurt, but it was too dangerous right now. There were two guns in play and one wrong move could get someone shot. All they could do was watch and wait, and  _ listen.  _ PJ couldn’t afford to look away and take in their expressions, but he could imagine. Did they believe Jack’s claims? Were they considering his “evidence?” Were they already looking to PJ with disgust, with hatred, with betrayal? This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go down. This wasn’t how things were supposed to end.

“ _ Seán.  _ Last time. Put the gun away before you do something you’re going to regret.” Either he had a strategy, or he didn’t trust PJ to handle this properly.

Seeing as PJ was currently a ball of trembling despair, nerves and agony, it was likely the latter. Some godfather he was turning out to be. His first big challenge, the first major test of his mettle, and he could barely hold words with his antagonizer. His predecessor was probably rolling in his grave. If Zombie was present, he’d reconsider PJ being their only option. If the Family could see him like this, pathetic and weak, they’d weep for the future. He was a disgrace.

Jack wasn’t happy about Jordan’s interruptions.

“I said,  _ don’t ye dare fuckin’ call me that,  _ ye rawny bastard!” He roared, the muscles in his hand, wrist and forearm all visibly tensing. PJ swore he saw Jack’s finger inch back on the trigger and held his breath. Next to him, Jordan stifled a strangled grunt.

“Please!”

_ Sophie. _

“Jack. Jack, please, don’t do this.” Suddenly Sophie was there, standing at PJ’s side, half her body pushed between the barrel of the gun and his own. Her eyes were wide and frantic but her expression unreadable. His heart stopped.

“Not here. Not now. Not like this. Don’t do this. It doesn’t have to go this way, you can… there has to be something else. Please.” Desperation and uncertainty rang high in her voice.

Sophie was… standing up for him? Sophie was  _ defending  _ him? Jack had a gun pointed at PJ’s face, and Sophie had leaped in anyway. PJ was stunned—as were Jack and Jordan, apparently. Neither took advantage of the opportunity.

Jack, however, was quick to shake it off and hardened his expression once more.

“Sophie. Ye don’t wanna get involved with this, trust me. Jus’ go back to yer seat. This is between us. It’s got nothin’ ta do with you, and I don’t wanna hurt ye.”

Sophie was trembling where she stood with PJ, but she shook her head and stood her ground. 

“No. I’m not moving. I won’t let you do this. Not to him, and- and not to  _ you _ , Jack. To yourself. I won’t.”

PJ had never wanted to grab for Sophie’s shaking fingers more. He wanted to grip them tight, pull her in close to his chest and shield her from this; from  _ all of it.  _ She didn’t deserve to be dragged into his mess. She shouldn’t be staring down the barrel of a gun for him. It would have been so much better if she’d never met PJ at all, yet here they were. She was so close, and yet she’d never felt so far away.

Jack scowled deeply. His finger hadn’t moved an inch from the trigger, nor had his aim faltered. He, too, was standing his ground.

“Then… if yer not gonna move, I’ll just have ta go through you. I have no choice.”

Several things happened in that moment. PJ’s heart lodged itself in his throat. Sophie drew in a gasp, frail and frightened. Jordan’s body leaned forward with his gun, primed to fire. Several other bodies in the vicinity stepped forward but hesitated. One didn’t. In a flutter of skirts and clacking heels on hardwood, Madame Foxglove poised herself elegantly between the ex-couple and the furious Irishman.

Another gun was added to the fray; another composed face stared down its target. To his credit, Jack’s only reaction was to furrow his brows. Jordan was shooting Madame Foxglove wary, uncertain glances but hadn’t shifted his own aim off of Jack. They all knew who the biggest threat was in the room.

“Molly.”

“Jack. I thought you knew all the rules. ‘No firearms in my speakeasy’ is very close to the top. ‘No murdering in my speakeasy’ is another big one. No roughhousing, no brawls, no bloodshed. These are all very  _ simple  _ requests people must follow for the privilege of resting easy inside these four walls. Currently, you’re breaking one, if not two, and gunning for a third.” Wade would have liked that one. Silently, Madame Foxglove longed for his presence. What a time for him to be bedridden.

“With all due respect, Madame Foxglove, this isn’t an ordinary bar brawl. Not by a longshot. I’m tryin’ ta do all of us,  _ and  _ the city of Boston, a service. Surely ye know what the Mafia would do if they found this place and pushed out the Irish.”

“You’re correct. I know quite well what would happen. However, if your claims are true, PJ has yet to oust us. And I don’t see the Irish caving to their rivals any time soon. Perhaps you should have more faith in your own people.” Madame Foxglove’s eyes flashed, glinting in the low light as blue clashed with blue. There was more to her words, and they both knew it.

That set Jack to grimacing. The comment had cut deep.

“Yer makin’ a mistake.”

“I’m certain one of us is.” Madame Foxglove motioned for Sophie to draw closer, and she did so without hesitation. “I, however, am confident in my choices. Are you?” Her question was met with silence, but she didn’t carry the subject on any further. “You will let us leave. You will not fire your weapon. You will take your petty disputes and thirst for vengeance  _ off these grounds  _ and deal with them like grown men, or so help me I will hunt you down and put you in the ground with that ex-godfather  _ myself. _ ”

Jack’s lips were pursed, but there was a newfound hesitation in his eyes.

“Do I make myself  _ clear _ ?”

Jack drew a breath. “Yer not changin’ my mind.”

Madame Foxglove’s frown spoke volumes.

“Fine. Have it your way. Sophie, stay close. We’re leaving.” Shifting her free arm back, Madame Foxglove let Sophie grasp onto it. They moved, backing slowly away from Jack and the confrontation he’d spawned, towards the door. She shot Jordan a single glance, and in a split second the two had somehow communicated.

Gun trained on Jack as well, Jordan shuffled over to PJ, taking Madame Foxglove’s place. His elbow nudged at PJ’s chest and he realized they were going for the same tactic. Jack still had two guns on him. If he managed to fire one, even two shots, chances were he’d be full of lead himself. He apparently reached the same realization just a few seconds later than PJ, because his eyes widened and his face flooded with indignant rage.

“ _ You can’t do this!  _ You crazy bitch! Do ye have any idea what yer doin’?! Lettin’ him get away, lettin’im loose on tha streets?!  _ He tried ta have ye both killed!  _ He’s goin’ ta take over the city and stand on all of our corpses ta do it, an’ yer lettin’im slip right through our fingers! You’ll regret this! You’ll wish you’d let me shoot him!” Jack’s roar was near deafening in the otherwise quiet of the speakeasy. He almost looked panicked, in a way; agonized.

If PJ had any feeling left in his body, that sight just about snuffed it out. He was escaping with his life, but at what cost? What had he lost this night that he hadn’t prepared for? Saying goodbye to friends who would remember him fondly had twisted into something dark and damning and positively nightmarish.

Oh, they would all remember this night. But not in the way PJ had hoped.

Madame Foxglove’s smile was frigid and fragile. There was no warmth in her eyes or face as she coaxed Sophie into the entryway of the speakeasy. “I don’t host any regrets just yet, Mr. McLoughlin. Do you?” Then she and Sophie were gone, out of sight, with Jordan and PJ close behind. Tyler had long abandoned his station at the door so all four were able to slip out with no issue. Further inside, they could all hear Jack release a guttural cry of frustration tinged with the barest hint of despair.

In the cold of the alley, all was silent. Eyes met, guns were stashed and breaths drifted as puffs of icy vapour into the air. Madame Foxglove drew her coat closer about her, Sophie tucked against her side. Jordan stood protectively before PJ, staring the both of them down. PJ had never felt so small.

Seconds fell away like the snowflakes drifting past them. It wasn’t a very long stare-off between protectors, but it was enough to convey silent terms and a shaky truce. No one drew their gun again.

Madame Foxglove dipped her head in a nod. Gently, she put her arm around Sophie and guided her past the men towards the end of the alley not occupied by a waiting car.

Jordan nudged PJ again, nodding his head in the opposite direction. Zombie was waiting. They shouldn’t give Jack any more of an opportunity to chase after them. Still, PJ couldn’t resist trying to meet Sophie’s eyes as she passed. Her gaze was downcast, her face drawn and grave. He was a sheet of skin stretched thin over a pile of bones and wrapped up in a coat like some macabre puppet put on display, and just then he’d never felt further from that night.

The stars were gone. Their smiles had faded. Sophie’s laughter was a forgotten tickle in his ear—yet the words fell from his lips as if nothing had changed. As if it was still the beginnings of autumn, and the air was crisp and sweet, and they were a couple of young lovers with the future at their disposal.

_ “Buona notte.” _

Sophie faltered, but only for a moment. She hurried off at a faster pace and PJ knew the rapidly chilling warmth on his cheeks was the start of fresh tears. He felt on the verge of collapse as he forced his feet to move.

Back to the car. Back to his new life. Back to the Family.

He’d cried, he’d trembled, he’d buckled under the pressure and he’d failed, crucially. Some godfather he was turning out to be.

Inside Freddy’s, Jack had thrown his gun to the floor in his blind rage. So close! He’d been so damn close, and still PJ had slipped from his grasp. He had no excuse. He should have taken the shot and been done with it—shot Maron too, for good measure. He could have done it. He’d had every opportunity from the moment PJ walked through the door.

Yet something had held him off, made him hesitate. He’d kept delaying the inevitable while PJ made his rounds until he knew time was up and he had to make a move. The results of his indecision were disastrous.

The last chance he’d had for a free shot at their greatest enemy, and he’d blown it.

No. No, he was going after them. He was going after them, and he was going to gather his men, and he was going to hunt PJ down before he could escape Irish territory. He wouldn’t live to see the sun. He wouldn’t live to take another life-

Jack’s efforts to snatch up his gun were derailed as Wilford lunged forward, grabbing his arm. 

“God dammit, Jack! Stop it!”

“Get off of me!” Jack roared, swinging his fist around and hitting his aggressor square in the jaw. It was pure reflex. He didn't see a face or call up a name, he just acted. “You don’t know half of what’s going on here, so don’t you fucking dare step into this.”

Wilford staggered back, crashing into a table and ending up a heap on the floor. He hadn't expected Jack to hit him. Throw him off, maybe, or pull out of his grip. But a punch to the face? He groaned and turned onto his side, curling into his knees, as Jack backed up with raised fists. Something had cracked when he went down. Something wasn't right.

"Jack..."

“Fucking stay away from me,” Jack spat.

Tyler rushed at him with a yell. Wilford getting hurt had spurned him on and he was finished with just watching. He was a big man, far bigger than Jack—but somehow Jack dodged him, ducking under his arm and slamming an elbow into Tyler's back. Tyler cried out and fell to one knee. Where he hosted bulk and strength, Jack dominated with speed and agility.

Ethan flew forward next, a chair raised up for lack of a weapon or skill. Jack batted away each jab as they scrambled around another table, putting him in Tyler’s path once again. The wrestler grabbed him, trapping an arm—but only one. Jack writhed in his grip, slamming the heel of his palm up against Tyler’s nose. The snap was audible across the whole restaurant.

Wilford cried out, struggling back to his feet, an arm held tightly against his rib cage.

"Jack, no! Stop!"

Tyler released Jack, his hands going up to his nose as he ducked away, howling in pain. "Fuck!" Blood was already spotting the floor.

“Just fucking… stop it!” The words ripped out of Jack, sharp and raw. “Let me leave. You don’t understand what’s happening, you can’t help, okay?” Jack choked on what could have been a sob as he looked over at Wilford, still struggling to rise, the pain clear on the man’s face.

“Fuck, Mark,” Jack rasped, backing up almost to the door. “I’m so sorry.”

Wilford raised a hand—was he asking for help? pleading for Jack to stop?—and called Jack’s name. It came out as a coughing wheeze, and Wilford sank back down to the floor, folding in on himself. Something wasn't right.

This time, the sob wasn’t held back as Jack burst out into the street, wiping a spatter of blood from his cheek before stumbling away. He didn't even notice he'd left his gun, or that PJ and Jordan and the ladies were all long gone. His mind was a swirl of despair and apathy, emotional turmoil and a deepening numbness. All he could think of was those last few moments: throwing Wilford into a table, the hurt in those brown eyes, how Wilford couldn't even bear to stand for a full minute.

He'd broken something. Jack had broken many somethings, and he was acutely aware of the fact they may not be fixable. Ironically, the only thing he'd wanted to break was still quite whole, and at the end of it all he'd still failed.

There was no going back from this. Jack's chips were down, he'd been dealt a bad hand, and he knew one wrong call could send the whole thing up in flames.


	57. They Who Are Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V) It's updated with every chapter!  
>  Today's Tune:  
> Haupe - Duke Ellington

Tom was slumped in his seat, staring blankly at the papers still covering his desk. No matter how much he did, he never seemed to make much in the way of progress. Sure, he dropped things into the ‘complete’ pile all the time, but you couldn’t tell that just by looking.

He sighed and dropped his head against the back of his chair, letting his eyes drift closed for a minute. He should be home, sleeping. Or doing anything else, really; he just shouldn’t be here, at work, at midnight.

What had his life come to.

Tom wasn’t quite sure how long he sat there, trying to ease the tension in his body, but the hands hadn’t moved to one o’clock yet when he finally opened his eyes.

“You were the one who wanted this,” he murmured to himself as he shifted to a more proper sitting position. “You get to deal with it.”

Before he could grab the papers in front of him again, the phone in one of his desk drawers began ringing.

Tom jumped, nearly sending papers flying, and stared at the hidden ringer box. Only a couple people knew the number for his office specifically, at least outside of the secretaries. But it was midnight, and he was the only one here, so this had to be an outside call.

There were many reasons his mothers or Mark would be calling him, and none of them were good.

Tom swallowed, trying to keep calm, and shifted the stacks of papers and files until he could reach the upright. He lifted the receiver to his ear, and struggled to free the stand from the mess on his desk.

“Hello, To-”

“You’ve got to come to the Tiny Box.”

Tom blinked at the voice cutting his off, then blinked again when he realized that voice belonged to Ethan. Why was Ethan calling him?

“What? Why?” Keep calm, he told himself. Keep calm. Finally, he sat down and settled the stand on top of his paperwork. “Is everything alright?”

“Ehhh, no, not really. It’s Mark. You’d better come see for yourself.”

Tom’s breath caught, and his grip tightened on the receiver.

“Did he collapse again?”

“No. I promise, this will be a lot easier to do in person. I’ll keep taking care of him here, but you need to come.” A pause. “I thought I’d have to drop a dime at your house; wake you up. What’re you doing in your office at almost one in the morning?”

Tom ignored the question. “What should I expect?”

“Tom. Just come here.” Then there was the distinct sound of a phone hanging up, and the hollow tone of nobody on the other line.

Tom stared at the mouthpiece, then dropped the receiver back on the switch hook. It only took him a few seconds to push his chair back with a screech, stand, grab his coat and yank it on. He clicked off the light to his office and locked the door before running down the hall.

It wasn’t like he was going to disturb anyone, after all.

The biting winter wind cut through his coat, swirled down the street, kicked up bits of snow and litter. His thoughts echoed those pale white things spiraling through the air: erratic, out of control, at the mercy of wind—of his worry. 

Something had happened to Mark, something bad enough Ethan had to call him. Hopefully he’d gotten it from Mark, because it would mean Mark was conscious after whatever happened—at least for a bit.

Had they gotten jumped on their way to their second job? Did they even  _ have _ the same second job? Tom didn’t know? Had they each been walking alone? Had Mark gotten stabbed? Was he dying?

No. No, Ethan would have told him if it was that bad.

Tom dropped into the driver's seat of his car and sat there for a moment, gripping the wheel. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to be panicked about this; Mark was depending on him. For what, he wasn't quite sure, but that didn't matter. Mark needed him, as soon as possible. That was the  _ only _ thing that mattered.

"What trouble have you gotten yourself into, Mark?" Tom murmured softly as he started up his car and began the drive to the Tiny Box.

Halfway there, Tom's hands were so tight around the steering wheel he was likely to make his own fingers go numb. What if this was a result of Wade's disappearance? Mark wasn't the kind to hurt himself, no; but if he'd been distracted worrying about Wade when he needed to be focusing on something, and gotten hurt because of that...

Tom forced himself to take another set of deep breaths. He couldn't do anything about Wade. Not since the man had vanished from the hospital. Really, he’d never been able to.

Guilt poked at him.

Wade wouldn't have even been in the hospital if Tom had just  _ listened _ to Mark, and transferred him. But he hadn't, and Wade had been stabbed. Mark had even warned him it would happen.

It didn't matter. Carpett never would have allowed it.

Tom scowled at his steering wheel. He'd been there when Carpett had gotten the news that Wade had been stabbed. The man had been far more concerned about Wade's disappearance (technically, yes, it was an escape) than about the fact that he'd almost died—could still almost die.

Was probably already dead.

Tom pushed the thought aside. He would have the chance to think about all that later, after he was sure Mark was okay.

Ethan hadn’t said whether to go to the front door or the back door of the Tiny Box, but Tom pulled into the alley anyway. It was easier to park there, at least.

They must have seen or heard him coming, because the back door opened before he even touched it.

Kathryn stepped aside with a, “He’s in the main room.”

Tom gave her a nod and pushed past her, walking as quickly as he dared. Had he been a bit less concerned about Mark, or a bit less frozen from the mid-December chill, he might have noticed the faintest hints of alcohol lingering in the air. 

But he didn’t.

All he noticed was Mark leaning against the back of one of the booth seats, one arm wrapped around his chest and the other balled into a fist and resting on his leg, pain clear on his face.

“Mark!” He was hurt- he was  _ hurt _ .

Mark lifted his head slightly before he saw Tom. Instantly, something flickered across his face, but it was too hidden by pain for Tom to distinguish the emotion.

“What happened?”

Across the table, Ethan shifted, getting Tom’s attention. 

“We got to work and some of our coworkers got into a fight. Mark tried to break it up, and, well...” Ethan frowned.

“It wasn’t-” Mark’s words were cut off by a wheeze, and his head dropped back against the seat again. “They-” 

“We’ve been over this. Don’t try to talk right now.”

Mark didn't argue, scrunching his face in pain.

"I managed to haul him back here," Ethan continued. "The two guys were still pretty upset, and I didn't want to risk anything else happening."

Mark looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't.

"What's wrong?" Tom flicked his gaze between Mark and Ethan. Mark didn't seem to be bleeding, at least. That was something. But one of his coworkers attacking him... there were so many injuries Mark could have.

"It looks like something with his ribs, and he's been having a lot of problems breathing." Ethan frowned. "I dunno. I don't have a car to take him to the hospital and get him checked out, though, or I would have done that already."

"I'll do it." Tom didn't even have to think about that one. Of course he would take Mark.

"Just... be careful?"

"Of course."

Neither of the brothers said anything as Tom draped Mark’s coat over his brother’s shoulders and helped him out to his car. Tom was too concerned with Mark's wellbeing, and Mark was wheezing painfully with every staggered step.

"I've got you," Tom assured softly. "I've got you."

Mark may have made some sound of affirmation, but he wasn’t sure—granted, when Tom could barely even hear anything but that soft wheezing of pain, it wasn't too surprising.

It was a quiet drive to the hospital. Mark had closed his eyes against the pain. Tom kept glancing at him to make sure he wasn’t getting obviously worse, but said nothing.

Tom hadn’t actually gotten the exact information on how Mark had been hurt from Ethan, and he mentally scolded himself. That sort of information could have been useful for the medical staff. Had he gotten punched? Had he been slammed into something? Had he been kicked?

Well, probably not kicked. Ethan probably would have remembered to mention that one.

Despite the coat hung over his shoulders, Mark was starting to shiver as Tom helped him inside the hospital. Hopefully, that was a result of the coat just being set on his shoulders like a cloak, instead of a sign of something dreadfully wrong.

Tom worried about it anyway.

Just as Mark had been sent out of the room for Tom, months ago, Tom was moved into the hallway and left staring at a closed door. Unlike when Tom had been the one getting examined and treated, it wasn’t likely to be a quick event.

Had Tom been less worried, he might have dropped into a seat and taken a nap while he waited. But he was far too restless to even consider that.

And so, like Mark had done the last time the two visited the hospital together, Tom found himself wandering the halls.

He’d spent less time here than Mark had, but each step still filled him with memories: visiting Mark before heading off to the war, coming with Mark to make sure he was alright after some thing or another, their father shortly before his death...

Tom swallowed and pushed the memories aside. No. The past was in the past. He was here for Mark now. That was all he would think about right now.

A few of the halls were lit with harsh light; some doors were closed, and some open to reveal either an empty bed or an uneasy patient—or, rarely, someone actually sleeping through this all.

A few halls were significantly darker, and Tom chose not to venture down those particular ones.

“Oh, please. Detectives die all the time.”

The words wafted to Tom, commanding his attention by being pretty much the only sound around.

“Take this seriously, okay?”

“Oh, come on, Dyke. Jason Parker has been dead for just about a year. How’d you get access to his body, anyway?”

Tom peered around the corner to see two men in hospital clothes. He recognized neither.

The one on the right shrugged. “I got access to it right after he died.”

“Then why in the world are you waiting until now to admit you did an autopsy on him?”

A warning sound. “Hey, keep it down. It was a favor, not approved. I told you that already.”

“Fine, fine.” The one on the left shook his head. “Seriously, though. Why wait so long?”

“I had to be careful getting all the information assembled, and then everything’s just been too busy for me to actually deliver the results.”

“Okay, well, was Detective Parker actually murdered, or is Detective Patrick just a paranoid man?”

“...evidence does point towards foul play.”

“Oh.”

Tom blinked and pulled away from the wall, turning to walk back the way he’d come. MatPat had known something was wrong, but Tom didn’t remember an autopsy ever being approved for Det. Parker. Granted, he hadn’t paid all that much attention to it—the first voice had been right. Detectives died all the time.

He’d just thought their partners were taken seriously when it came to matters of their deaths.

Tom made a bitter face. Jason’s death had gone uninvestigated, and so whoever had killed him had undoubtedly gotten away by now. Carpett had refused to let Wade get a transfer to a different prison, and he was dead now, too.

The law was supposed to save lives, and deal justice for when it couldn’t—neither had happened.

Tom ran a hand through his hair. Wade. If Tom had just  _ listened _ to Mark, had gone ahead and helped despite Carpett, Wade would still be alive.

There was just no way Wade could have survived this long. He’d disappeared into a winter storm after escaping from the hospital, already half-dead from a stab wound. And that was two weeks ago—there was no way Wade had gotten medical treatment, or found a safe place to rest and recover.

No, he was dead, and probably eaten by the many strays that wandered the city.

Mark had lost one of his best friends because of Tom’s inaction.

Tom swallowed as a wave of guilt washed over him at the thought. At the time, he’d been convinced his hands were tied. Realistically, they were. Had he tried to do anything, Carpett would have had him fired. He’d known that then, too. 

That didn’t make it right.

If the corruption in the law enforcement wasn't so bad, maybe Jason would have gotten the justice he deserved. Maybe Wade would still be alive. Maybe fewer bulls and detectives would show up dead in the streets.

Maybe Tom could feel like he wasn't turning a blind eye to what was eating Boston from the inside out.

There were too many maybes, and he couldn't do anything about it.

Not if he wanted to keep his job, and do what good he could. No matter how little good that actually was.

Tom slowly made his way back to Mark's room, trying to keep tears out of his eyes. He couldn’t have Mark see him crying. He couldn’t let Mark know there wasn’t any hope for Wade. Mark was already in enough pain.

He had to wait a while longer before the door opened and he was allowed in.

Mark’s arm was still resting loosely around his torso, but he didn’t seem to be as tense and as in pain as before. Already, that was an improvement.

“Just remember, Mr. Fischbach: the bindings you’re wearing are to help your ribs heal. Don’t remove them.”

Mark frowned.

The doctor turned to Tom. “Make sure he gets plenty of rest, and that he doesn’t lift or carry anything too heavy. He’ll heal just fine if he follows all the directions.”

Tom had to hold back a sigh of relief. “Alright.”

Mark just nodded.

“Oh, Mr. Fischbach, you mentioned this injury happened during your second job.” The doctor turned back to Mark. “Based on the highly physical basis of that work, you should avoid it for four to six weeks. If you need, I can write you a note explaining your situation to your employer.”

Mark shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

He sounded a bit breathless, but he wasn’t wheezing loudly any more. That had to be good.

"Very well." The doctor stood, clipboard in hand. "You're free to leave, then. Remember the things we talked about."

Mark nodded. "Will do."

Something told Tom Mark had no intention of following at least one of the directions he'd been given.

The doctor left. Mark seemed to struggle a bit with standing, his arm wrapping tighter around his ribs again, but he gave Tom a strained smile as he removed his hand from the examination bed.

“You ready?” Tom asked.

Mark nodded.

“Great. I’m taking you home. You’ve got to get some rest.”

Mark sighed. “Tom. I’ll be fine.”

“I should hope so. But it’s late, and you’re hurt. Besides, you heard them. You need rest.”

Mark made a face, but nodded. “Fine.”

The car was quiet as they drove to Mark’s house. Tom was too focused on driving, and he was scared he’d slip up about Wade if he spoke. Mark seemed a bit out of it, and unlikely to start a conversation himself. Hopefully the pain meds he was given were making him drowsy, and not the pain itself.

By the time they pulled up to the house, Mark was solidly asleep in the front passenger seat.

Tom made a face. He couldn’t carry Mark in, so he was going to have to wake him.

He leaned over, ready to shake Mark awake, but right before he made contact Mark shifted with a soft mumble.

Tom blinked, but put his hand on Mark’s shoulder.

Once again, Mark made a sound. This time, though, it was recognizable as a name.

“Wade.”

The word was slurred, and Mark likely wasn’t aware he’d even spoken. Still, Tom jerked away as if he’d been burned. Mark wasn’t stupid. He was bound to know that Wade had to be dead, right?

Did he blame Tom for it?

Tom hesitated, then gently shook Mark.

“Mark. Come on. Let’s get you to your room.” This, at least, was familiar. He’d done it after Mark’s collapse. 

Familiarity wasn’t really a good thing. Not in this case.

It took a bit of prodding and urging, but finally Tom managed to get Mark out of the car, in through the front door, and into his bedroom. 

Mark sat on the bed for a minute, arm wrapped around his torso, before he looked up.

“It’s really hard to breathe.” His hand drifted to where the bandages were fastened. “I’m going to-”

Tom stopped Mark with a frown.

“There were specific instructions to not do that.”

“I like being able to breathe more.”

“Mark.”

Mark’s shoulders slumped. “Fine.”

Despite Mark’s protests about needing help getting ready for bed, he didn’t actually tell Tom to go away, so Tom continued helping. 

Once Mark was settled in bed, though, Tom couldn’t bring himself to leave. Which was ridiculous; he had work in the morning and needed to get to bed himself.

“Tom?” Mark murmured, one hand reaching for Tom’s. “Can you stay a bit?”

Tom blinked, but nodded and sat on the edge of Mark’s bed.

“Of course. Is something wrong?”

“Still can’t breathe right, but... I guess the doctor knows what they’re doing.” Mark grabbed Tom’s hand. 

His hand was shaking.

Tom clasped Mark’s hand in both of his and frowned. “Just get rest, Mark. Everything will be better in the morning.”

“Will it?”

Tom swallowed. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Mark turned his head away, closing his eyes, and said nothing.

Tom hesitated, then stood and reached for his jacket and vest.

“You’ve looked guilty all night,” Mark whispered.

Tom froze. Mark had noticed, then.

“I worry about you,  _ aga,” _ Tom admitted. “You’re hurt. Just rest.”

“I know the difference between guilt and worry.”

Tom sighed and sat back down on the edge of Mark’s bed.

“What are you saying, Mark?”

A long pause, where, if Mark’s expressions were any indication, he was trying to pull together coherent sentences despite being drugged. Then: “Wade isn’t your fault.”

Tom’s breath caught, and Mark’s fingers grasped at his hand again.

This time, Tom let him.

Tom closed his eyes. “I should have done something.”

“You were going to. Carpett stopped you.”

“I should have done something anyway.”

Mark moved his hand to Tom’s far shoulder, almost like a hug. “Like what?”

Somehow, those two words made it clear Mark was aware of the position Tom had found himself in.

“You didn’t have any way to go past Carpett safely.” Mark’s head came down on Tom’s shoulder, his words slurring slightly.

Tom moved to push Mark down onto his bed, but Mark was clinging too tightly to Tom for that to happen.

_ “I should have done something.” _ Tom whispered the words, hoping Mark wouldn’t hear them.

Instead, Mark shoved himself forward, feet dropping onto the floor and Mark scowling.

“Hey.” Mark wobbled, knees buckling, and Tom instinctively darted forward to catch him.

“Isn’t your fault,” Mark mumbled, pushing against Tom as if trying to stand. “You didn’t know-” Mark broke off and wrapped both arms around his ribs. “You didn’t know there would be a knife.”

Tom frowned, pulling Mark back up onto the bed. A pause, where he listened to Mark gasping in sharp bursts of air, and then he shook his head. “It doesn’t really matter now.”

Mark frowned.

“Just get in bed, Mark.”

A long moment as Mark reluctantly shifted as if getting ready to lie down. But he never actually moved.

“Mark.”

Mark looked up, and there was something in his eyes that made Tom yearn to help him. Mark was dealing with something more than his ribs. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, or he would have by now, but whatever it was was clearly bothering him.

Tom sighed and gently pushed Mark onto the bed. “It’ll be okay, Mark.”

This time, when Mark reached up and pulled him into a hug, Tom was less surprised. He was, however, still fairly surprised when Mark continued pulling on him.

“Don’t go.” Mark took a shuddering breath. “I don’t want you to be alone with your thoughts tonight.”

Tom hesitated, then nodded and allowed Mark to pull him down next to him on the bed. Almost instantly, Mark was nestling himself in close.

Mark didn’t say anything more, and his breathing grew soft and even, with only the barest hints of the gasps of pain that had been happening before.

Tom could almost imagine them as children again.

When Mrs. Fischbach came in the room in the morning to ask Mark if he knew where Tom was (because his car was out front, but he was nowhere to be found in the house), the brothers were still curled up together, asleep.


	58. "Russian Ringleader Release"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

_ Monday, December 14, 1923 _

_ Charles Mir, the leader of the Russian mob, is slated to be released from Charlestown prison on the 24th.  _

_ The reasons for his early release—especially considering he had nearly four years left on his sentence—are unknown. What is known is that once he walks the streets of Boston once more, they’re sure to run with blood. _

_ This has been a day in the life of Dan and Phil. _

_ Come back tomorrow for another Nifty News column! _

“This will be a problem,” Link said, frowning. 

Jack dropped the paper. “Yes. Yes it will be.” The two of them stood there for a moment, scowling at the headline. Things really weren’t going well for the McLaughlin Boys—Jack hadn’t been able to find PJ to end the noodles all at once, they were still losing both men and territory, and now he was going to have to deal with the Russian mob rising to power again.

“Do you have any plans?”

“Nope.”

Link’s frown deepened, but he didn’t offer any sort of comments Rhett would have been all too willing to express.

Speaking of Rhett... 

“Is Rhett in the warehouse, do you know?” Jack drummed his fingers on the table. Rhett had a much more intimate knowledge of the men. He would know what they could and couldn’t do.

“He’s out handling a territory fight right now.”

Jack cursed softly. They only had a week to figure things out— _ he _ only had a week to prepare for Mir’s reappearance.

“What’s Mir like? You’ve dealt with him. All I’ve heard are rumours.”

Link crossed his arms. “The rumors are plenty accurate. He’s not scared to do whatever it takes to get what he wants, and he’s not stupid about it—if anything, he’s cruel. He’s not above sending his men into sure death if it will get him closer to his goal. Now that the Italians got a new godfather he’s the most powerful and longest-lasting boss of a crime syndicate in Boston, and has more experience than you, Madame Foxglove, and the new head noodle combined.”

Jack scowled at the mention of PJ.

“It’s best to never deal with him, but he’s bound to bring trouble to us sooner or later.” Link sighed. “And in that case, I’d recommend overestimating him, because you’ll find out you still underestimated him in some capacity.”

Jack’s scowl deepened, and he slowly started pacing his area of the room.

Chica, laying in the corner, looked up, then settled her head on her paws again.

Chica was just adding to Jack’s worries right now. She’d been sad ever since  _ that _ night, somehow knowing Mark had gotten hurt, and clearly upset that Jack hadn’t even taken her close to Freddy’s when they were out and about.

She needed Mark, but Jack wasn’t sure he could ever face him again. Not after being the reason three guns were pulled in the speakeasy. Not after trying to kill someone he once called his friend. Not after hurting Tyler. After hurting  _ Mark. _

Mark had given him everything he had, and this was how Jack had repaid him.

It didn’t make him much better than the head noodle, now did it.

Jack sighed and turned back to Link. There were more pressing, more important matters at hand.

“How can we prepare?”

Link shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t think we can. Mir’s had a year and a half to plan in prison, and I don’t know what goes on in that mind of his. I don’t want to know.” A pause. “But it does mean we’re walking into this pretty much blind.”

\-----

“Jordan and I can handle the extra load for the moment, and Bryan is managing Matthias’ men a lot, but sooner or later we’re going to need to get the new  _ soldati _ their own  _ capos _ ,” Zombie said. “Preferably sooner, with Mir’s release just around the corner.”

PJ absently rubbed his fingers over the fabric of the back of his chair, thinking. They’d needed more men to keep the territory they’d taken, and they were successfully recruiting a number of recent Italian immigrants, but none of them were experienced enough to become  _ capos. _ As a result, Zombie and Jordan had taken them under their wings, but they weren’t used to handling so many men—especially so many who were still in training.

“I don’t think any of them are ready enough for that, unfortunately.” PJ frowned. “Or will be for quite some time.”

“As he said, we can handle it for now,” Jordan assured. 

PJ nodded. 

“The real problem we’re facing is Mir, though,” Zombie continued. “He gets out in a week, and we’re not going to be prepared for him.”

PJ scowled. He had never personally dealt with Mir before, but they’d brushed paths back before even the Wald incident. 

PJ had never been more terrified.

“He’s a nasty piece of work, alright.” Jordan dipped his head. “I’d love to put a bullet in him, but I don’t think I’ll get another chance.”

“Another?” Zombie looked over, mild surprise and the first glimmer of respect PJ had seen from him directed in Jordan’s direction ghosting behind his eyes. “You’ve tried before?”

“I really don’t like him.” Jordan folded his arms. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to go venturing off by myself. I know my responsibilities.”

Zombie dipped his head. 

“I’ll need to think about how to handle Mir,” PJ decided, “though I’ll gladly hear any ideas you have.”

Zombie sighed. “I don’t have any right now, but I will keep you updated.”

PJ nodded.

Zombie quietly excused himself, and Jordan closed the door behind him. When he turned around, PJ’s shoulders had slumped.

He looked so frail these days.

“You should rest.” The words tumbled from Jordan’s mouth before he could stop himself.

A faint smile flickered across PJ’s face.

“You don’t have to tell me I’m a mess, Jordan. I know.”

Jordan frowned, even as PJ began his pacing.

There was that restlessness of his. None of the others had said anything about it, but Jordan was sure they’d noticed. No matter how exhausted PJ seemed—and he always acted like he wasn’t when around others, but Jordan knew better—he almost never stopped moving, almost like a caged animal.

PJ suddenly sank into his chair, hands shaking as he placed them in his lap.

“You okay?” Jordan knew the answer to that— it was a no—but he felt he might as well ask anyway.

PJ dropped his head against the back of his chair. “Do you think Sophie’s okay?”

“Madame Foxglove will be protecting her.”

PJ slumped more in his chair, looking to all the world (in this case, Jordan) like a thin shell barely holding together over exhaustion and nerves.

“And if Mir finds out about her?”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t have an interest in acting.”

\-----

Keeters meowed softly, walking alongside Molly and Wade. Well, Molly was walking—Wade was dumping half his weight on her and hobbling the best he could.

They were attempting the stairs today. Not because Wade was necessarily ready for it (he barely had the strength to stay awake for more than a few hours, but that was better than he had been) but because he was sick of the bedroom and wanted a change of scenery.

Not that Molly was attempting to get Wade down the stairs by herself, either. JP was off dropping the current shipment of alcohol at Freddy’s, and Brycelyn was spending the night helping Minx and Krism at their Greenhouse.

Well, Krism, at least.

Minx unfolded her arms as Molly and Wade approached the top of the staircase. “We ready to try this?”

Wade grunted in affirmation.

“Alright then.” Minx stepped up to the other side of Wade, taking some of his weight off Molly.

“So,” Minx continued as they began taking the steps one at a time, Wade gripping them with everything they had, “did you see the article the Boston Bumblers wrote this morning?”

“Nope.” Wade didn’t look up from the stairs.

“I did.” Molly frowned. “It does have the potential to make things difficult.”

Wade gave her a curious glance, but didn’t spare any more breath to ask questions.

“Mir’s getting released in a week,” she explained.

Wade slipped, dropping the entirety of his weight on Molly and Minx and making them both groan.

“Anyway-” Minx grunted as she hauled Wade back to a not-almost-falling-down-the-stairs position- “before he went to prison, he ignored us. He had his own bunch of prostitutes to worry about.”

“We weren’t large enough when he was around for him to care. We weren’t in the bootlegging business, either. I feel like that would make him a lot less apathetic to us.” Molly glared at Keeters as he tried to weave through everyone’s feet in his efforts to make it down the stairs first.

“You mean, since we’re direct competitors in something now?” Minx tilted her head. “Yeah, that would do it.” She smirked. “Not if you dropped Freddy’s.”

“You say that, but we both know that’s not going to happen.”

Minx laughed softly.

“Seriously, though, I think our best bet is just to avoid Mir’s attention.” Molly frowned as Wade’s fingers dug into her shoulder. “One of us getting stabbed because of him is plenty.”

They took the last step down onto the ground floor, and Wade gave Molly an incredulous look.

“I dunno, if Wade can handle it I’m sure everyone else can.” Minx’s eyes twinkled.

“You can get stabbed next.” Wade glared at her.

Minx laughed, then her expression became serious. “And if he does turn attention to us?”

Molly took a deep breath. “I’m not giving in to a man like him.”

“That’s not actually a plan.”

“I know. I’m still working on the best way to not get any of the girls killed.”

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

“This is a very lovely conversation,” Wade interrupted, expression pained, “but can we continue it after I sit down? I don’t want to interrupt you ladies when I collapse.”

\-----

Mark was supposed to be at the Tiny Box right now, getting it ready for shutdown and Freddy’s opening.

Instead, he was darting through the halls of the courthouse, the copy of today’s newspaper crinkling in his grip, panting at his inability to breathe properly due to the stupid bandages around his ribs.

He rounded a corner and slammed into someone, sending them both sprawling: Tom to the floor, and Mark against a wall.

“Mark?” Tom asked incredulously, picking himself up. “What’s going on?”

Mark just handed over the newspaper.

“Right there. Front page.” The front page was not at all where the Boston Bumblers usually found their articles, but apparently Mir was big enough news for that to happen.

Tom paled, and the newspaper crinkled even more as his grip on it tightened.

“My office. Now.”

It only took a minute for the two brothers to be safely inside Tom’s office, Tom closing the door and turning the lock to keep it closed from curious minds. 

“Tom-” Mark spread his hands helplessly. “What’s going to happen? He’s going to come for you.”

Tom shook his head and paced, clearly as upset as Mark. “I’ll figure something out. I just...” He made a face. “Listen: he’s already demonstrated he’s not scared of hurting people to get at me. I have to know you and our mothers will be safe.”

“I don’t exactly think he’d let me call you if he  _ did _ decide to do something, though.”

Tom ran his hands through his hair. “I know, I know, I just...” He took a deep breath. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be in there for another three and a half years.”

Mark gripped Tom’s shoulders, bringing Tom’s pacing to a stop. “But it is happening, in only a week. So what are we going to do about it?”

“I...” Tom looked up helplessly. “I don’t know.”

Mark resisted the temptation to groan and just pulled Tom into a hug. His brother was shaking, there was no denying that.

“We’ll- we’ll figure out something,” Mark promised. He didn’t know what, but there had to be  _ something _ .

“I can... I’ll...” Tom tightened his grasp around Mark. “Maybe I can find you guys bodyguards or something...”

Mark shook his head. “You’ve got to protect yourself.” He could ask the Grumps to keep an eye out on him and their mothers—maybe if they did that, he could actually get them to accept payment for their bouncer work at Freddy’s. But he didn’t think they’d like the idea of guarding Tom very much.

“I can’t just leave you guys unprotected!” Tom cut himself off, then took a deep breath and pulled away from Mark. “I’ve got a week to figure this out. I’ll make sure everyone’s as protected as I can make it happen, but I can call on the police for help. You can’t.”

Mark narrowed his eyes at him.  _ “You’ve _ got a week to figure it out?  _ We’ve _ got a week to figure it out.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to bring you into this,  _ aga. _ ”

“I don’t want us to keep each other apart anymore, though.”

Tom looked up slowly.

“Please,” Mark pleaded. “Don’t shut me out. We can handle this as brothers.”

Tom hesitated, then he nodded, relief washing across his face. “Fine. But I’m telling our mothers.”

\-----

The office of Detectives Patrick and Bluemoon was rather messy these days, notes spread out across desks and walls and even a bit of the floor. The organization of those notes changed every day or so as more evidence of Madame Foxglove’s speakeasy was found and the location of it narrowed down.

It wouldn’t be long now: maybe a week, a week and a half.

At the moment, though, neither of the detectives were focusing on their work.

“I’m not looking forward to Mir’s release,” MatPat finally admitted. “I knew the law had problems; I just thought it was better than this.”

Gar gave a shaky sigh and nodded. “He’s not a fun guy.”

“You’ve done reading on him, I assume?” Gar hadn’t been in Boston before, so he must have.

Gar shook his head. “Well, some.” He hesitated and buried his face in his hands. “He’s tried to kill me in the past- please, don’t ask questions. I’m already thinking about it too much.”

MatPat stared at him for a moment, then just reached out and put a comforting hand on Gar’s shoulder.

“I won’t let him get to you.” He had far too many questions that he wanted to ask—what had happened being primarily among them—but Gar was shaking as they sat there. Clearly, asking questions wouldn’t go over well.

“I don’t know if you can promise that, but thanks.” Gar’s voice was fragile, and he didn’t raise his head.

“I’m not losing another partner, Gar. Not to anything but your own decision on the matter.”

Gar took a shuddering breath, but he just rocked back and forth slightly.

MatPat just swallowed. He’d already lost Jason, he’d lost Steph—he wasn’t going to lose Gar.

He just wasn’t.


	59. May the Future Be Forgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Brownie for helping with the chapter title, despite not knowing what the chapter holds.

Jack was honestly surprised when the door to Freddy’s opened for him. After what had happened the last time he’d been here, he hadn’t really expected them to want anything to do with him.

Tyler stood in front of him now, though, crossing his arms and staring Jack down with a cold glare.

Jack resisted the temptation to huddle deeper into his coat.

“I’m not asking to stay. I just... need to apologize to Wilford.” Mark deserved that much, at least. “Then, if he wants, I’ll be gone for good.”

The words were bitter in his mouth, but they were the only ones he could offer. He couldn’t demand to be let in—Tyler was clearly ready to brawl again, and he’d probably win this time. He couldn’t demand to stay. He couldn’t even demand to play the drums, or take a single sip of a drink.

Freddy’s was a blessing. It brought comfort and peace.

Given that Jack had destroyed that comfort and peace not too long ago himself, by drawing a gun on the new godfather, they probably didn’t want anything to do with him after all.

Tyler was still inspecting him, as if waiting for Jack to make a move.

“You can take my coat,” Jack said in a low voice, “and search me for weapons, if you want. I don’t have anything on me today. As I said, I’m just here to apologize.”

Tyler’s gaze flicked to Jack’s knees for just a second. Still, his stony expression didn’t change.

Jack looked down at Chica. She was leaning forward, clearly waiting for the moment when she could bound inside and to Mark’s side.

“Chica doesn’t have anything on her either.”

Tyler scowled and stepped aside. “You get ten minutes.”

Jack nodded and stepped inside—then halted as Tyler’s arm blocked him from stepping in any further. He didn’t move as Tyler took him up on that offer of searching him for weapons.

It was a good thing he hadn’t been lying about not carrying, or Tyler would have thrown him out then and there.

Jack stepped fully into Freddy’s, already dreading having to find Mark. The night had already started, and if he had to venture out onto the main floor... well, there was a good chance there would be someone there much less lenient with him than Tyler had been.

Kathryn was terrifying sometimes.

He was making his way past the break room entrance when the door to the office opened, and out stepped Felix and Cry.

Instantly, Cry tensed, stepping partway between Jack and Felix. 

Felix’s expression darkened, and he pushed past Cry and grabbed Jack’s arm, nearly slamming him against the wall.

“How could you do that-” Felix cut himself off.

Jack shrank back. He’d never seen Felix angry before, and it wasn’t something he’d ever expected to see.

And then Felix’s expression changed again: to dreadfully calm.

“Miss Newton has nothing to do with your feud with Mr. Liguori, Mr. McLoughlin; and you know it.” Felix’s grip tightened on Jack’s arm. “And yet you were ready to shoot her just to get at him.” He shook his head, his lips tightening as a fraction of his mask slipped. “To think what would have happened, had Madame Foxglove not intervened.”

Jack wasn’t sure what was worse—being scolded so fiercely by Felix, or the fact that Felix was using his public face and voice to do it.

“You didn’t even have the dignity to tell me of these events yourself,” Felix continued, “forcing Wilford to relive the night to inform me.” His carefully controlled expression cracked, showing Jack just how  _ furious _ Felix really was. “I never wanted to see the man in tears—and yet he is. But he can’t even manage that properly, because he was hurt by a very-” Felix’s grip tightened on Jack’s arm- “dangerous-” and a bit more- “mobster.”

Despite the fact that his arm was now starting to go numb from how hard Felix was gripping it, Jack couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

Just how badly had he hurt Mark?

“And the fact that you didn’t even bother to tell  _ Wiishu _ about these plans, and then just ran out and left her to deal with the aftermath?” Felix shook his head. “My dear Mr. McLoughlin, you have fallen far. Far indeed.”

Whatever Felix was going to say next was cut off by a stifled, yet unmistakable, cry of pain from behind the office door.

Felix’s hand dropped from Jack and he looked over at the door—while Jack darted to the door and hauled it open.

Mark was doubled over in the office chair, both arms wrapped around his ribs. 

“Mark!” The name dropped from Jack’s lips before he paused to consider that Mark might not want to hear his voice right now, considering the last things Jack had said to him.

Mark, breathing rapidly and shallowly, looked up. Tear streaks ran clearly down his face.

“PJ isn’t here,” he wheezed. “Even if he was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Something in Jack broke at that, and he stared helplessly as Mark slowly pulled himself up, clearly in pain.

“I...”

“You what, Jack? You messed up everything.” Mark closed his eyes and leaned back, grimacing.

Jack swallowed, blinking back his own tears.

“I came to apologize.”

Mark didn’t say anything, nor move for a good minute, clearly struggling to catch his breath.

“Look,” Jack began, taking a deep breath, “I know what I did was wrong. It wasn’t the time or the place to handle it, especially not the way I did. Nobody should have gotten hurt, and I shouldn’t have said the things I did.” He swallowed. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. If I were you, I would have already thrown me out. I just... you deserved better. Freddy’s deserved better.”

Some new emotion formed under the pain on Mark’s face, but Jack couldn’t quite tell what it was.

“I... I did it at an awful time too, with Mir’s release in a few days.” Jack paused, and Mark winced. Clearly, he hadn’t been the only one concerned about this. “I know what threat he is to you, and... I’m going to do my best to protect you. And your brother. To an extent. ...Mostly you.”

This wasn’t coming out at all as smoothly as he’d wanted. He drew in a breath.

“I’ll do my best to protect you even if you decide you never want to see me again.”

Mark clearly struggled with his words for a minute, and Jack dipped his head and moved to leave. If he wasn’t welcome here, he wasn’t welcome.

“I...” Mark hesitated. “I need time. I can’t sort through my emotions right now. I... We’ll talk later.”

Jack stared incredulously at Mark. Sure, Mark hadn’t gone ahead and forgiven Jack—he hadn’t expected him to—but this… this made it sound like forgiveness wasn’t off the table.

That was more than he ever could have hoped for.

“You’ll-” Mark took a shuddering breath of air, arms tightening around his ribs “-you’ll have to earn my- earn our trust back, after what you pulled. I don’t know what that’ll take.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“In the meantime,” Mark grimaced, “what I saw in that warehouse is starting to make a lot more sense.”

Jack winced, even as familiar golden fur brushed under his hand before Chica continued forward and put her head in Mark’s lap.

Mark lowered one hand to dig his fingers in her fur.

“Your men—make sure they know the rules. I never want another weapon drawn inside these walls.” Mark met Jack’s gaze, boring unwaveringly into Jack’s soul. It was honestly a bit disconcerting.

Jack nodded.

Some part of him wondered if he should have brought Link with him for backup that night. The few members of the mob already inside the walls of Freddy’s had been so confused at the sudden turn of events that they hadn’t pulled their guns to help end it then and there (one had later confessed he was too scared of Molly to even consider it, which was fair). Killing the new godfather and alienating all of his friends in one go would have been easier than dealing with this.

The other part of him cried at the thought.

Mark’s head dropped back against the office chair again, his eyes closing against the pain once again. Jack swallowed as guilt washed over him again. Mark didn’t deserve what had happened.

“Come on, Chica.” Jack wiggled his fingers at Chica. “We have to go before Tyler drags us out of here.”

Chica  _ boof _ -ed sadly, but obeyed.

“We’ll be back sooner or later,” Jack promised her. “I’m not taking you from him forever.”

Chica just looked at Mark again before following Jack out the door.

Instantly, Jack was faced with the remaining three members of the team.

Amy gathered something from a counter and walked past him to the main floor, shoulders stiff and tense.

Kathryn gave Jack a very intense glare, as if she was trying to burn a hole through him, then turned and followed Amy.

Ethan flinched as Jack’s gaze moved over to him, and he swallowed and looked away.

The door to the alley opened, and after a brief murmured exchange with Tyler, someone familiar stepped inside.

“Seán,” Killian said, “come on. Link needs some help with stuff.”

The slight emphasis Killian put on the word ‘stuff’ filled Jack with all sorts of mixed feelings. ‘Stuff’ meant ‘mafia antics’.

It meant PJ Liguori was out killing Jack’s men.

Jack took a deep breath and nodded, not daring to look at Tyler as he slipped past.

He would come back later. After Christmas, maybe. And then he would work to gain Mark’s—and the team’s—forgiveness.

Hopefully they would give it.


	60. Against All Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

The police station was filled with distinct holiday cheer, now that Christmas was two days away. Of course, not all of the officers celebrated Christmas, and some celebrated no sort of religious occurrence at all, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference in the amount of laughter and smiles that were passed around the precinct.

In the detectives’ office, however, there was quite the set of mixed feelings.

On the downside, this time tomorrow Mir would be released from prison and settling comfortably into his new life as a free man—despite everyone knowing that shouldn’t be the case—and would be free to pursue revenge on MatPat for helping the elder Fischbach put him behind bars and try to kill Gar again.

MatPat still didn’t know the story behind that. Gar had clammed up every time the topic moved to Mir’s release, clearly worried MatPat was going to ask questions. Whatever had led to Mir’s hitmen targeting Gar was obviously an uncomfortable memory. Understandably. MatPat would be rather upset himself if Mir had actually tried to kill him before, and not just threatened it.

Except now, Mir would soon be able to make good on his threats.

There wasn’t much point in thinking on this any longer, though. It was just worrying the both of them.

“So,” MatPat leaned forward as he broke the silence, eyes scanning the walls before landing on the map of South Boston, “where could Madame Foxglove’s speakeasy be?”

That was all they had left to figure out. They knew there was one. They knew she was deeply involved. They knew it was in South Boston, which was a good starting point. They knew it wasn’t any house, and pure practicality dictated it wasn’t in any of her brothels (though MatPat wouldn’t be surprised if they served alcohol to customers anyway).

“Well-” Gar flipped through his journal- “I was looking at ideas for that earlier.”

“Let’s hear what you’ve got.” MatPat leaned back on his desk.

Gar glanced up and nodded, then hid a chuckle. MatPat spent more time sitting on his desk than he did at the chair for the desk.

He cleared his throat.

“So logic dictates that while Madame Foxglove could have taken over a speakeasy already in existence, it’s more likely she started one, because she’d get to set all the rules.”

MatPat nodded. This was something they’d decided a while ago—not that she couldn’t have taken one over, but that it would have been more trouble than it was worth.

“She could have approached a stranger about it, maybe a restaurant owner known for taking risks or liking adventure or being unhappy with the law, but it would have been much safer to talk to someone she already knew.”

MatPat nodded. “She’s a cautious woman.” She definitely covered her tracks.

“We don’t know much about her as a person, including if ‘Moll’ is a nickname because of what her name is, or if it’s because the rumours are true and Mr. Wade Barnes is also a mobster.” Gar frowned as he turned a few pages, slowing in his flipping of them. “This means we don’t know her personal connections. And we can’t exactly talk to her neighbors about her, because the house at the address we have listed for her and Wade almost never has her answering the door, which implies she’s not around much. Probably has a second house under a different name, and does all her stuff there so we can’t track her.”

“Almost certainly.”

“And while we don’t have a lot of information about Wade after he returned from the war, we do have some from before. So what I did this morning was I went and I grabbed the full roster of people he served with in the war, and a list of his neighbors growing up, and who he went to school with—and those we know he’s associated with now, as well as those who he worked with at the construction company before he was fired for being a bootlegger.” Gar pulled a set of folded papers from his journal.

It was quite the stack.

“I haven’t been able to go through them yet and check the names, but I figured it’s a good of a place to start as any.”

“That definitely sounds like a plan.” MatPat held out his hand. “I’ll take half.”

The room, for a while, was filled with the sounds of flipped papers and scribbled notes and  _ hmmm _ s and  _ huh _ s, but nothing was said.

MatPat finished his pile and set about reading the names he’d written down. Gar had been foresightful enough to realize they would need the current professions of these people, and MatPat had just written down every one of them who worked in some sort of thing that could support a speakeasy. Club owners? Check. Librarians? Not so much.

It ended up being a list of three or four from his entire stack. Wade Barnes, as it turned out, knew, or had known, quite the number of people.

Gar was still working quietly, so MatPat leaned back on his desk. Absently, he started fiddling with his wedding ring.

Was Stephanie okay? Madame Foxglove was surely to be the one who had taken her; all the more reason for MatPat to find this speakeasy and shut it down. Maybe Steph would be able to escape in the ensuing confusion.

Probably not.

But maybe.

That hope was all he had right now.

Gar paused so long in his writing that it caught MatPat’s attention, and he looked over to see Gar looking at one of his papers with clear dismay on his face.

“What is it?”

“I never thought I’d be writing down ‘Mark Fischbach’ as a name for potential involvement with a speakeasy.”

MatPat blinked.

“What?”

“Mark and Wade, they went to school together. And he manages the Tiny Box. So I have to write him down.” Gar looked up, his hesitation very clear.

The thought that the younger brother of a pro-Prohibition judge would be involved in a speakeasy was preposterous, but it was bad practice to leave gaps in an investigation. Someone could come back later and accuse them of deliberately allowing Mark to continue hosting a speakeasy, even though there was just no reason Mark would do that.

Was there?

No. He had no criminal record of any kind. He’d never shown any kind of-

Even the regular police officers had heard how Mark had visited Wade in prison, how he’d gone to Tom to try and get Wade a transfer, how he’d been investigated to make sure he wasn’t harboring an escaped prisoner. Sure, that investigation had turned up nothing, but it only spoke to just how  _ strong _ the friendship was between the two of them.

“Put him down. We’ve got to be thorough.”

Gar nodded, hand shaky as he complied.

It only took a few more minutes for Gar to finish compiling his list, and then the two sat on the floor, in the clear space in the pathway, and compared notes.

There were seven people between the two of them.

Both of them just sat there for a minute.

Mark had a one in seven chance of being involved in Madame Foxglove’s speakeasy.

MatPat closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. No. Mark had a six in seven chance of  _ not _ being involved in Madame Foxglove’s speakeasy.

Those were much better odds.

Those odds didn’t last long, though, as they started to find things about the suspects—there was something very bitter about calling Mark that—that eliminated them, one by one.

One of them was in prison, and had been for a whole two years. Madame Foxglove’s speakeasy hadn’t been around when they’d been arrested.

Another was in the process of selling their restaurant, and while it was possible the new owner had agreed to keep up a speakeasy, it didn’t seem very likely. Especially since Madame Foxglove wouldn’t like the risk of a brand new owner on an old speakeasy.

They were put on the ‘maybe’ list.

The others took a bit of investigating, but they were crossed off the list for some reason or another.

All MatPat could really focus on, though, was how with every name they took off the list, Mark Fischbach remained.

And finally, finally, the two detectives were left staring at one name.

Gar looked at MatPat helplessly.

MatPat swallowed, then glanced at the clock. It was late, and they both needed to get home.

“I guess we’ll find out one way or another tomorrow night. We can’t pull together disguises in time to check it out tonight.”

Gar nodded, slowly closing his journal.

MatPat gathered up their loose notes and went about organizing them neatly before sending Gar home for the night.

Then, he left the office himself.

He paused in the doorway and glanced over his shoulder, hand resting on the handle.

The walls were covered in notes that had been organized time and time again trying to get a new angle on this. They’d been working on this for months.  _ This speakeasy  _ was the key to Jason’s death—MatPat wasn’t sure how, but it  _ had _ to be.

They’d finally found out where it was.

They’d finally figured out who ran it.

It was the culmination of months of work, and he honestly couldn’t believe the result.

There was just no way. Every bit of emotion was screaming at MatPat that they were wrong, that they’d missed something, or that they’d overanalyzed and twisted the evidence to make  _ this _ happen.

MatPat closed the door quietly, trying to squelch the horror slowly rising in him once again.

“Based on your face, I’d guess you’re still hitting dead ends?”

MatPat looked over at the temporary police chief replacement with a, “No, actually,” slipping out before he saw who was standing next to him.

The Boston Bumblers.

Phil’s attention was on the temporary chief, but Dan’s gaze was fixed on MatPat. There was just something almost intimidating about it.

“Oh?” The temporary chief smiled. It looked out of place on his haggard face, and for a moment MatPat felt sorry for the man. “Progress, then. Have you finally discovered where this speakeasy is?”

MatPat dipped his head.

The temporary chief hesitated, then glanced at the reporters. “How ‘bout you go ahead and tell them where to meet you, whenever you’re going ahead with it?”

Phil’s gaze turned to MatPat with a faint smile, notebook in hand, but there was no mistaking that his gaze was as intense as Dan’s.

“And what if we’re wrong and turn up with empty pockets?” MatPat asked. The reporters, for the first time, were actually unsettling him. He couldn’t help but feel hesitant about telling them the findings.

“I’m new, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t heard the stories about your cases, Detective Patrick.” The temporary chief dipped his head slightly. “You’ve done this city a great service.”

MatPat stuck his hands in his pockets so the temporary chief wouldn’t see him clenching his hands. Would people still think that after the arrests tomorrow night?

“Detective Bluemoon, too. This will be his second speakeasy, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s correct.” 

“When is he done with his rookie year, again?”

“In May, sir.”

May. Gar had come to Boston over half a year ago.

Jason had died almost exactly a year ago. And now, only now, was MatPat getting close to having any sort of answers about what happened.

...Like he’d get to ask questions about Jason after arrests.

The temporary chief made a sound, then pulled on his coat. “Well, I’ve got to go, but I look forward to getting your report.” He walked off, slipping on his hat as he went.

A moment of silence.

“So,” Phil said, “where and when are we meeting you to see this go down?”

Phil just nodded as MatPat reluctantly gave the information, then turned to Dan.

“Come on, let’s get home. We’ve a lot to do tomorrow.”

Dan gave a nod, his gaze dropping to the floor as the two left.

MatPat frowned. Dan didn’t seem to be doing very well recently, but he doubted asking about it would go over well.

The streets were surprisingly quiet as MatPat made his way home, even though he was instantly approached by Skip mewling as soon as he walked in the door.

MatPat sighed, looking around the house. It just... wasn’t the same without Steph here. He needed her. She always knew what to do when he got this distressed.

Because distressed he was.

Against all odds, Mark Fischbach, younger brother of Associate Justice Fischbach, ran Madame Foxglove’s speakeasy.


	61. Chaotic Cryaotic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

“Good afternoon,” Minx said warmly as Cry stepped inside the Greenhouse she and Krism ran. “You’re a bit early.”

Cry shrugged, smiling faintly. “What can I help it if I like the company?”

Minx snorted, but a small smile curled up her lips. “Sure.” She shook her head, even as Cry removed his coat. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen your face.”

Cry touched his own cheek, usually covered by his mask. Not here and not now, though, since he didn’t want anyone recognizing him as “Kjellberg’s man.” He wore his mask so often it was a bit weird not to, but he would manage.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen your mask.”

Minx laughed. “It’s somewhere in my room. What, do you like it?”

“The purple stripes are very pretty.” Cry shrugged again. “Anyway, where am I meeting her?”

“That way, second left, third door on the right.” Minx pointed down the hall.

Cry tipped an imaginary hat as he passed by his fellow Faceless.

Molly was speaking with one of her Orchids when Cry came to the door, so he rapped quietly on the doorframe.

Molly looked over and nodded, then turned back to her Orchid.

“We can pick this up later. In the meantime, Minx said she’d have tea ready for us. Can you go check on that?”

“Sure,” came the response, and the Orchid brushed past Cry to leave.

Cry walked into the room and took the seat across from Molly, as she gestured to do.

“Your sister sent this,” Molly said, sliding an envelope across the table between them. “I’m sure it talks about everything you’d want to know, but I’m going to pass on information anyway.”

Cry took the envelope and turned it over in his hands, his sister’s familiar handwriting gracing the front of it with his name.

“She’s thoroughly settled now.” Molly leaned forward. “It’s going to be a little rough for a few months, but she’s going to be just fine.”

Minx walked in the room and handed them each a cup of tea before a crash sounded from the hall and she walked out muttering exasperated curses under her breath.

“And if she’s found?”

“I’ve set up ways for her to get help. Several of them, depending on what could happen. I don’t think she was followed, though; and she’s staying incognito, so she should be fine.”

Cry slumped back in his seat, a sigh of relief escaping him. Finally, this awful situation was ending.

Cry and Molly continued to talk about Cry’s sister for a few more minutes before Cry brought up the business Felix had sent him with.

Molly hummed thoughtfully.

“There’s several in need of a couple nights away. I’ll poke around and see who’s up for an all-expenses-paid couple days off. Does he want it to be a secret this time?”

“Well, he’s not going to be anywhere near the houses in question, so I think he’d prefer it that way. There’s enough rumors about him and Marzia, anyway.”

Molly dipped her head.

Frequently, Felix would set up some of his other houses (Cry honestly wasn’t sure how many the man owned) and ask Molly to let some Orchids stay there for a bit. He never went anywhere near them, but it was nice seeing how much the Orchids loved seeing glimpses of the elite lifestyle.

They talked over the many technicalities for another half-hour.

By the time Cry excused himself, a distinct headache was forming, and he left in more than a little discomfort.

\-----

Felix wasn’t entirely sure when Cry got home, too involved in some of the more paperwork-heavy things of running a business, but he was holding a hand to his head when he walked into Felix’s office.

“You doing okay?” Felix asked, glancing up from his desk for a moment.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cry replied, “nothing I can’t handle.”

Felix frowned, but nodded. “Well, Ken’s gone to fetch Mary. He said they have something to tell us—good news, from the way he was smiling.”

“That’s great.” Cry dropped into the seat in the corner. “I had a very productive talk with Molly.”

“Oh?” Felix raised an eyebrow. “What’d she say?”

“She’s down for sending some Orchids out for a bit. She was working on a list when I left.”

Felix grinned. “Good.” He paused. “And your sister and niece?”

“Safe and sound.”

“That’s good to hear.” Felix tapped his fingers on his desk. “So what do you think we should set up for those hardworking ladies this time?”

Cry shrugged.

The two planned for a bit, Cry shifting in his seat, and touching his head a few more times. About half an hour in, he seemed to flinch at something Felix wasn’t aware of.

“Seriously, are you okay?” Felix frowned again. “Do you need Ken to check you out?”

Cry let out a long breath and slumped in his seat. Almost instantly, his head jerked a bit.

Felix sat forward in his seat. “Cry?”

Cry grunted softly. “How long until Ken gets back?”

“Ten minutes?” Felix slid forward a bit, wanting to do nothing more than usher Cry to some place he could rest. Clearly, something was wrong. Maybe his head hurt more than he’d been letting on?

Cry moved to put his face in his hands, but this time his arm jerked. Almost instantly, Cry grabbed at his elbow, doubling over with a grunt.

“Cry?”

“Banged my elbow,” came the tense reply.

Felix hesitated, then stood. “Come on. Let’s get you to your room. You can wait for him there.”

Cry, to his credit, didn’t argue and stood, still holding his elbow. Which was perfectly understandable. Banging your elbow hurt like nothing else.

The weird twitching and jerking only seemed to get worse as Felix escorted Cry up the stairs to his bedroom, even getting bad enough that Cry stumbled several times.

“Here,” Felix instructed as he steered Cry to a chair, “you just sit here for a minute. I'm going to grab Ken the second he walks in the door and bring him up.”

Cry just grunted in return.

Felix quietly left the room, trying to avoid making Cry's headache even worse.

What was causing this? Was Cry sick? Had he gotten hurt somehow? And, most importantly, was he going to be okay?

Felix took the stairs down two at a time, nearly tripping himself in his haste to see if Ken had arrived.

As it turned out, he had not.

Felix settled for pacing nervously in the entryway, until the door opened and Ken stepped in with Mary at his side.

Instantly, the smiles on their faces died.

“Ken, something's wrong with Cry.” Felix swallowed. “He's just been getting worse and worse and I need you to look at him before-”

A muffled yell and a  _ thud _ came from upstairs.

Felix paled. “Cry!”

He took off instantly—but so did Ken, and Ken had longer legs. Taking two steps at a time, he was bursting through the door to the bedroom and dropping to Cry’s side by the time Felix even made it to the second floor.

He could hear strange, guttural noises. Was Cry choking on something?

No, he realized as he circled around Ken, it was much worse than that.

Cry’s whole body was stiff and shuddering. His eyelids were fluttering, allowing glimpses of eyes that were rolled back in his head. His jaw was clenched tight. One of his legs kept slamming into a bedpost, and Ken grunted as an arm suddenly flew up and hit him in the chest.

It was a seizure.

Felix became aware of just how rapidly his heart was beating. This looked really bad. It looked  _ painful _ .

He dropped to his knees and grabbed one of Cry’s wrists, intending to hold it down so Cry would stop smashing it into the nearby furniture—then a second later Felix was on his back, blinking at the ceiling.

Ken had pushed him.

“Don’t hold him down,” Ken growled, not even looking at him, “or you’ll do more harm than good.” There was something bitter behind those words, and for a moment Felix felt a pang of sympathy. He wouldn’t be too surprised if Ken had dealt with similar instances during the war.

“Then how can I help?” he asked, cursing the obvious shake in his voice.

Cry’s head and chest lifted up, the muscles in his neck cording as they forced his head to turn to its limit. Then, leaving no time for Ken to cushion the first impact, his body spasmed, and his skull began to strike repeatedly against the floor.

“Grab a pillow.”

Before Ken had even finished saying those three words Felix was scrambling to Cry’s bed. Wordlessly, because he wasn’t too sure if he could trust his voice at the moment, Felix handed it over to Ken and watched as he cradled the back of Cry’s head with one hand and tucked the pillow underneath with the other.

He moved back to the bed, reaching out for another pillow.

“Felix, one is all he needs. We just have to wait it out.”

Felix turned slowly, then settled on the edge of Cry’s bed. He tucked his hands onto his lap. They were trembling.

Less than a minute later Cry’s breathing had changed, and the tremors had stopped. Ken shifted his limp body to the side, and Felix grimaced as bloody, pink-tinged spittle dripped from Cry’s slack mouth.

He turned his face away when he saw tears slip down Cry’s face.

Nothing was said in the gap between that first seizure, and the second. Moments before the third began Cry gasped out, “Please make it stop,” before the tremors took his voice away.

Felix stepped out of the room during another seizure. He left Ken there, murmuring assurances that everything would be fine; that he wouldn’t leave Cry’s side.

A bitter smile twisted across Felix’s face. He didn’t have the strength to remain in that room, to watch as his friend’s body ripped itself apart, leaving Cry with barely enough energy to weep in the moments of peace that seemed far too short.

For a single, selfish moment Felix wondered if it would’ve been easier to watch had Cry’s mask been on.

He remained outside the door, simply breathing—a luxury Cry didn’t have—before Marzia brushed by him with a bowl of water and a cloth. That’s when he steeled his nerves, and re-entered the room.

“Ken,” he spoke up from the doorway, “we have to go.”

“That’s not an option.” Ken’s voice was deep, quiet, and left no room for argument.

“We need to find help for him,” Felix pleaded, glancing down for a moment at Cry’s limp form. The man’s eyes were closed, and his body was still. His face was tight with pain. “We need to speak to Minx. She’ll know what to do.”

The ensuing silence was tense. Marzia was looking up at him from Cry’s side, where she was wiping his brow with a cool cloth. Mary laid a hand on Ken’s shoulder, and after a moment Ken covered it with his own.

“Fine,” he growled, “let’s go.” 

The time it took to get to Minx’s Greenhouse was absolutely agonizing, and some part of Felix was glad Ken was the one driving them. His hands were shaking far too much for things to have gone well if he’d been behind the wheel.

It was starting to get dark by the time they got inside, even though it was still early in the day. 

Granted, it was Christmas Eve. Nobody really expected it to be bright right now, not at this time of the year.

The very first thing someone told them when they asked after Minx was that she didn’t take customers. It took a surprising amount of effort to convince the Orchids that neither Ken nor Felix had any interest in becoming a client.

After that, it took a surprising amount of time for Minx to actually emerge to speak with them.

"I can’t talk now. There are things happening, and I don't have the time to deal with an egg." She scowled at them.

Felix blinked, and Ken growled.

Cry- they had to talk to Minx about Cry, that was what they had come to do. She was the only one who could help him. And if she was just going to do this, then he was as good as-

"We're not here for us." Ken narrowed his eyes at her. "We're here for Cry."

"He's not here."

"We know that. We need your help with him."

Minx rolled her eyes and then cursed as something clattered in the background. 

A head peeked through the doorway, just as Minx turned around.

"No. Not here, not now. Get out." Minx strode over and slammed the door, all the while muttering several more curses.

"Please." The word spilled out of Felix's mouth before he could say stop it. He wasn't sure he would have stopped it if he'd had the chance. "Cry needs help. He- he-"

"He's having seizures," Ken said, putting a hand on Felix's shoulder. "We don't know what caused them, and we can’t make them stop."

Minx's shoulders slumped and she turned to look at them, her expression scrunched into something that could have been displeasure, or worry, or sadness.

"How many, and how often?"

As Ken reported, providing many more details than Felix had noticed, much less thought of ever reporting, Minx's face got more and more of that peculiar expression on it.

"You want to know what you can do?" Minx crossed her arms.

Felix nodded, a spark of hope flaring in his chest.

"Plan a funeral."

Felix just about crumpled at the words, and Ken's sharp intake of breath didn't help.

"That can't be it. There has to be  _ something _ we can do," Felix ran his hands through his hair. He didn't care if he looked distressed—he had to help Cry.

"If it doesn't pass on its own, you'll be burying him. Those are the two options. I can't do anything for him. I can't give him anything, since you don't know what caused it; and I can't offer any reassurances." She paused. "Well, I can give you one. When- if he dies, his suffering will end."

Felix tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.

Ken's face was grave. "If you're certain."

"I am."

Ken sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. Then his hand landed on Felix's shoulder again. 

"Come on. Let's not leave the ladies to be alone with him any longer than we have to."

Something in Minx's expression changed at those words, almost seeming like pity.

Felix didn't dwell on it, though, as Minx and Ken ushered him out of the Greenhouse and back into the automobile, where Ken once again took the wheel.

Almost exactly five years ago, he and Cry had met. They hadn't met as friends; not at all. In fact, if Felix remembered correctly, the day had involved Felix threatening to kill Cry and both of them being quite battered because of it.

It was only a matter of hours, now. They'd met on a ridiculously early Christmas morning of 1918.

Felix's hands were shaking as they pulled up to the house.

Five years ago today, he'd lost his parents. And now he might lose someone he'd come to call his friend.

What a cruel day this was.

Felix almost didn’t want to walk back up the stairs to Cry’s room, but Ken’s hand on his shoulder was rather forceful in that regard.

How was he going to tell Marzia and Mary that Cry was likely going to be dead before the sun rose on Christmas morning?

Felix froze halfway up the stairs.

What if Cry had already died? What if he’d passed while Felix and Ken were gone, trying to get help?

What if he thought Felix had abandoned, him right before death?

Ken almost pushed Felix up the stairs before Felix started moving again, this time with even more fear coursing through him, if that was possible.

When he got to the doorway of Cry’s room, though, Mary was still sitting at Cry’s bedside, and Cry was lying still. If the way his chest was heaving was any indication, he’d just gotten through another seizure.

Mary looked up, looking about ready to burst into tears. “I think they’re getting worse.”

Cry groaned quietly at that.

At least he was conscious.

“I, uh…” Felix stared helplessly at Cry.

Cry struggled to push himself up on his elbows, as if trying to sit up all the way.

“Gotta… Marzia,” he wheezed out, his voice a mere whisper.

Ken pushed Cry back down.

“No. Don’t push yourself. It won’t do you any good.”

Felix paused, though, looking around. “Where  _ is _ Marzia?”

“I don’t know.”

Mary’s words were quiet and faint as she finally spoke up. She held out a paper and a toy bus.

Felix took them, his heart plummeting. As he read the words, he could feel his body uncoiling from its taught shape—and then he slumped against the wall.

_ Kjellberg, my man, _

_ Here’s the deal: we’ve got your dame. _

_ Come to the warehouse district. You’ll know which one we’re in by the explosives strapped to the outside. _

_ No bodyguard. No police. We see either, we set them off and run—not a benefit your lady will have. So just save everyone the trouble of unnecessary deaths and come alone. You wouldn’t like it, and neither would our employer. _

_ What are we going to do with you, you ask? _

_ Well, again, it’s simple. _

_ Your life in exchange for hers. _

_ You have until midnight. _

Felix looked up. His eyes were bright with what could have been tears.

“How…”

“They made a distraction downstairs and grabbed her when I went to investigate,” Mary said thickly. “I came back up to find her gone and Cry having a seizure in the hall.”

“I tried to stop them,” Cry supplied. He’d gone back to lying prone on the floor, looking utterly exhausted.

“There were four of them, Cry. I don’t think even you can take on that many at once when you’re well.” Mary shook her head.

“Sure I could have.” They could barely hear the rasp of his voice.

Mary raised an eyebrow.

The note was pulled from Felix’s hands by Ken, who swore after reading it.

“We’re calling the police.”

“No,” Cry and Felix blurted in unison.

Ken and Mary both blinked.

“They know how to handle situations like this.” Ken waved the paper. “And they mentioned an employer—they’re not going to want to risk their lives just for some big paycheck.”

“They would for revenge,” Cry spoke, struggling to make his voice heard.

“Revenge? What sort of revenge is this? They’re hired goons.”

Cry shook his head. “No-”

Whatever he was going to say was cut off, the word turning into a strangled croak.  It was yet another seizure. And this one… Mary was right. They were definitely getting worse.

Felix sank to the floor, gazing at Cry’s jerking form. Mary put her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, as Ken gave up on keeping the pillow securely under Cry’s head and instead scrambled back to give him room.

This one lasted nearly four minutes.

“...Not just…” Cry coughed weakly, clearly trying to recover from this. “Not just goons,” he murmured, his eyelids drooping. “They’re Faceless.”

“They were wearing masks,” Mary acknowledged.

“Faceless?” Felix swore softly. “Why do Faceless keep getting sent after me?”

“Because... someone out there who  _ really _ wants you dead.” His lips barely moved as he spoke, then a faint scowl flickered across Cry’s face. “Might be the same person... hired me five years ago.”

“Who is…?”

Cry lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Don’t know.” His eyes drifted closed for a moment, and Felix’s heart plummeted to his stomach for the seconds it took Cry to open his eyes again. “I know them. The Faceless.” There was a long pause. “Well, I recognize them, at least.”

“And?”

“Felix, remember when I got attacked in Freddy’s?” His voice was stronger now: it had graduated to a harsh whisper.

Felix almost shook his head, but paused. “When you got your ear sliced?”

“He’s one of them.”

Felix swore again.

“As I said.” Cry’s gaze drifted to the ceiling. “Revenge.”

“Okay,” he started, then stopped and looked at the clock in Cry’s room. It had been almost an hour and a half since he and Ken had gone to Minx. “I’m going to go.”

“What? No.” Ken crossed his arms, bodily blocking Felix’s exit from the room. “As your bodyguard, I can’t let you do that.”

“Ken.” Felix scowled. “That’s not going to stop me.”

“I still don’t see why we can’t call the bulls for this,” Ken argued.

“They don’t know how to handle Faceless,” Cry replied, pulling himself upright to slump against the footboard of his bed. “We’re an unnerving lot in the first place, and even more when there’s multiple of us in the room at once. These four… I wouldn’t describe them as reasonable. Not reliantly. Going to the bulls  _ will  _ get Marzia killed.”

“Not going to them will get  _ Felix  _ killed!”

“There must be something that leaves us with both of you alive, right?” Mary was twisting the fabric of her skirt in her hands, betraying the calm in her voice.

Felix buried his head in his hands. “I… I don’t know.”

Silence ruled for a long minute.

“Do you have any ideas?” Ken turned to Cry. “You’re the Faceless expert here.”

“I have one.” Cry nodded.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

Cry opened his mouth—then didn’t say anything, a distant look on his face.

Ken and Mary exchanged a long look, and Felix lifted his hands from his head.

“Cry?” Felix finally asked.

Still, no answer.

Mary leaned forward and snapped her fingers in front of Cry’s face.

He didn’t so much as flinch.

This time, when the three of them looked at each other, there was an underlying panic to their expressions.

Mary put her fingers on Cry’s neck, searching for a pulse.

Cry pulled away, expression flicking to confusion. “What? Why were you doing that? I was just talking.”

“You went quiet for what must have been a whole half minute,” Mary said. “You didn’t respond to any of us.”

Cry frowned. “Well, that’s not good.” He shook his head slightly. “Though it does illustrate the point I’m about to make.”

“…that you also shouldn’t be involved in this because something’s wrong?”

Cry pursed his lips. “Uh, no. Not at all.” He pushed himself into a more upright sitting position, and Felix internally winced at how  _ exhausted _ Cry looked. The seizures had clearly been taking their toll on him. Hopefully, not too many tolls. Who knew what kind of permanent damage they could do.

“I couldn’t help but notice that Minx didn’t come back with you, or send anything along to help.” Cry nodded at Felix, and swallowed. “It doesn’t speak highly of my chances. So, since I’m probably going to die anyway, I’ll go in your place.”

“That’s not a plan, that’s suicide.” Felix crossed his arms.

“Did you hear the part about ‘I’m probably going to die anyway,’ or did you miss it.” Cry squinted at Felix. “Also, does anyone know where my glasses are? Or my mask? Either one.”

“On your bedside table,” Ken supplied.

“I don’t-“ Felix looked away. “Nobody should die because of me.”

“I’m one of your bodyguards,” Cry pointed out. “It’s my job.”

“But your sister, and niece. What about them?”

Cry frowned again. “They know I could die. It’s a risk of being a Faceless. And I’d like to think I’ll survive both whatever’s happening to me, and the BBC; and get Marzia back to you safely.”

“The BBC?”

“That’s the group name for the four that took her.” Cry shrugged slightly. “As I said: they’ve got a reputation. One of them tried to kill me that time in Freddy’s.”

“And he would have, if he hadn’t been pulled off you,” Felix argued, standing and pacing the small amount of floorspace that wasn’t already occupied. “There’s no way you can handle him in this state, let alone the other three. And what about getting Marzia and yourself out safely? You’re barely able to sit up.”

“Felix…”

“There’s got to be a way for-”

“Felix.”

“I won’t let you just throw your life away like this-“

“Felix, do you remember how we met?”

Felix blinked at Cry’s question. Then he closed his mouth and nodded.

“It’s a bit hard to forget.”

“Good. I didn’t want to die then, and I don’t want to die now. I will do  _ everything _ in my power to get both Marzia and myself back safely, okay? You won’t lose both of us.”

Felix looked at Cry for a long minute. Sure, he was sitting up, which was better than he’d been in hours, but his entire frame was trembling slightly. He must be completely exhausted.

“Cry-”

“Felix. I’m not giving you a choice this time.” Cry let out a sigh. “What time is it now?”

“Eight.”

“Alright.” Cry rubbed his face. “I’ll rest for a bit—I want to be there by eleven. In the meantime, I’m going to need to pass as Felix, at least from a distance. It’ll be dark, so they won’t be able to recognize me until it’s too late.”

“What will you need?” Mary asked.

“One of his suits should do the trick. I’ll move over my knife sheaths from mine, so I’m not going in unarmed. Hopefully-” Cry halted, the distant look returning to his face.

Felix stared helplessly, then turned to Ken. “He shouldn’t go.”

“It’s not ideal, but he’s the most qualified for the job.” Ken shook his head. “You can’t fight; I’m better at healing than hurting; and Mary’s not going, not with the baby.”

“Baby?” Felix looked over at Mary, who nodded and smiled shakily. “Congratulations. I’ll make sure to adjust your schedules accordingly.” He turned back to Cry, who still had that distant look on his face. “I guess we don’t have much of a choice, then.”

Cry blinked. “Wow, that’s disorienting.” He swallowed. “As I was saying, hopefully I’ll be in and out fast.”

Felix crossed his arms and looked at the ground uncertainly. “I hope so. I really hope so.”


	62. Lie of O(h)mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)  
>  Today's song:  
> Stolen Moments- Oliver Nelson

Ohm wouldn’t stop pacing. Each footstep, hard soles against metal-grate floor, echoed through the open, empty space.

“It’s going to be fine,” Toonz said casually. He was standing up against the wall of the warehouse, his arms folded over his chest.

“Sure, sure,” Del said from his place leaning on the railing, looking out over the warehouse’s ground floor. “We’ve got just over an hour before we decide what we want to do with her.” He glanced over his shoulder, where Marzia was tied to a chair and gagged. Toonz’s coat was draped over her shoulders. Her eyes burned angrily into Del, and he turned back around.

“By the way,” Del added, “what did Minx  _ do _ to Cry? He looked about ready to kick off.”

Vanoss shook his head and turned back to the window, keeping watch again. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I just hope she did her job right, and didn’t overdose him on whatever it was.”

“We can’t do anything about it,” Ohm said, still pacing. When Vanoss glanced over at him, Ohm had pulled out some of his tiny bombs and were rolling them between his fingers. “There’s not much point worrying about it.”

Marzia’s brow crinkled, and her gaze landed on Ohm, following him as he paced.

After a few minutes, Toonz leaned forward. “Hey, Ohm, why’s she giving you that look?” He sounded as though he was frowning under his mask.

Ohm stopped pacing for a minute to look at Marzia. “I dunno. Maybe she wants to say something.”

Marzia nodded slowly, narrowed eyes fixed on Ohm.

“Well, I’m not ungagging her. She kicked me.” Del shook his head.

Toonz just held up his hands, a reminder that he too had been kicked. Multiple times.

Vanoss sighed and walked over. “Sure. Make the guy with one functioning arm do it.”

He didn’t remove the gag so much as he carefully tugged it free of her mouth.

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing.”

Her gaze went back to Ohm, who had started fidgeting with a slightly larger one of his portable explosives.

“I thought you were dead.”

Ohm froze, then stiffly returned the explosive to a pocket.

“That was probably for the best.”

The other three members of the BBC looked at each other in confusion. Ohm and Marzia knew each other? Since when?

“At first I thought I was imagining it, but your voice is still the same.” Marzia gave Ohm a confused look. “It’s been thirteen years. Where have you been?”

“Around.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you survived?”

“It’s a lot easier to move around unnoticed by the law when you’re legally dead,” Ohm said dryly.

Marzia frowned.

“Besides, I’m not sure you have much room to talk yourself, considering you don’t do any work for them now.” Ohm reached into a pocket and started pulling something out, but then seemed to reconsider and pulled out his empty hand.

“They don’t think I’m dead.” Marzia furrowed her brow. Then she swallowed and started speaking Italian.

_ “You were next in line. Everyone was sobbing at your funeral.” _

_ “I find that hard to believe.” _

_ “People admired you.” _

_ “People were scared of me, and the ones who admired me were as dangerous as I was. If I remember, Wald was one of them.”  _ Ohm shook his head. _ “Look where that got me.” _

_ “PJ was one of them, too.” _

_ “And how did that turn out for him?”  _ Ohm turned away. _ “Last I checked, he’s miserable.” _

A long pause.

_ “You can come back.” _

Another long pause.

_ “I don’t think I can.” _

Vanoss frowned. There was something about the way Ohm was talking... There was something here much deeper than he would be able to guess. Unless...? No, that was ridiculous.

Was it?

Vanoss shoved the thought aside and turned back to looking out the window. 

This time, he saw someone.

Vanoss squinted at them for a minute, trying to figure out who it was.

Then he nodded and glanced over his shoulder. “He’s here.”

Marzia’s head snapped over to look at him, her eyes widening in clear distress.

“Felix,  _ no.” _

Ohm nodded and stepped forward, reaching into his coat once again and this time pulling out a knife.

“No!” Marzia struggled against her bindings. “Don’t hurt him! You’re better than this!”

Ohm sighed, then reached over and pulled her gag back up.

“No noise out of you, okay?”

Marzia proceeded to kick him, landing a solid hit on his shin.

Ohm grunted. 

“You should try trusting me. You used to do that.”

Marzia’s eyes burned into Ohm as he turned and walked away.

“Vanoss? You want to get him?”

“Sure.” Vanoss ducked away from the window and walked to the stairs to the ground level before skipping down them. It wasn’t a particularly fun thing going on here, but that made it just a little bit better.

He winced as Marzia’s muffled screams floated down to him. A quick glance up proved nobody to be touching her.

She was trying to warn ‘Felix,’ then.

At least, Vanoss hoped this wasn’t actually Felix. If it was, they would actually have to kill him.

He didn’t want that.

‘Felix’ was waiting just outside the door to the warehouse, leaning heavily on his cane. Vanoss didn’t recognize his face, but, then again, he hadn’t seen every Faceless unmasked.

“Do yourself a favor,” Cry said, exhaustion grating in his voice, “and never let Minx make you tea.”

Vanoss stepped aside to let Cry in. “Noted.”

Cry had to rely on the wall to walk forward, too. Clearly, whatever Minx had done to him had taken a toll on his body.

Vanoss closed the door, the click of the deadbolt and the snap of the padlock echoing through the empty warehouse.

“He’s here,” Vanoss called over his shoulder.

“Good,” Ohm called back, “bring him up.”

A long, long moment of silence as Vanoss walked to Cry.

The silence was broken by a sharp curse—Vanoss had no idea who said it—and Marzia’s gasp.

“You shouldn’t have come!”

Cry groaned and looked up, swaying a bit unsteadily as he did so.

“Don’t worry.”

A long silence, where Ohm walked up to the second floor railing and put his hands on it.

“Welcome, Cryaotic.” Ohm lifted his hands and gestured to the walls of the warehouse. And the pillars. And the stairs.

There were very distinct explosives strapped to all of them.

“I’m not in the mood for theatrics, Ohmwrecker.” Cry seemed to buckle a little, and Vanoss took a step sideways to get closer. “None of us want to be here.”

Ohm leaned on the railing again. “We were starting to wonder if you were going to show up at all.”

“I got a bit distracted by my life flashing before my eyes.” Cry buckled again, this time grabbing onto Vanoss’ good arm to steady himself. “But I’m here now. Let’s get this over with.”

“Fine.” Ohm stood. From this distance, you could barely tell that he was holding a knife.

And then said knife thudded into Kjellberg’s cane, sending it skittering across the concrete floor and Cry pitching into Vanoss.

“Not necessary,” Cry called up.

Ohm’s only response was a laugh.

Vanoss sighed.

“Come on. Let’s get you up there.”

“Tell me it’s not a ladder,” Cry begged.

“Stairs,” he replied, shaking his head

Cry sagged a bit at that.

Vanoss frowned. With how much weight Cry was dumping on him, he probably wasn’t in any condition for even stairs.

“Can you hold on if I carry you up?” Vanoss twisted slightly so Cry would have access to his back.

“I hope so,” was the only response before Cry’s arms hooked around Vanoss’s neck and shoulders, and his legs wrapped around his waist. Vanoss grimaced under his mask; the sudden weight was making his bad shoulder ache.

Stairs were difficult with someone on your back. It changed up the whole center-of-balance thing, and he was forced to take each stair one at a time, like a small child. Despite this, though, Vanoss refused to let Cry tire him. He still needed energy for later.

“Cry?”

Marzia sounded so confused, so lost, as Vanoss got the two of them to the second floor. Cry managed to lift his head at her voice. Tears were tracking down her cheeks, disappearing into the cloth gag that had been pulled out once again.

“I’m here.”

“What- what’s going on?”

“A lot of things. You’ll be fine, though.”

“So,” Ohm said as he started sawing at the rope binding Marzia’s wrists behind the chair, “my dear Marzia, this is how we’re going to do it. That open window there? The one our dear owl mask has been staring out of dramatically? There’s more roof just on the other side, and then there’s a ladder down. You’ll run, and get out of here as fast as you can. Don’t look back, don’t slow down, and don’t tell anyone this is how you got away.”

Marzia stared at him. “What?”

“Just listen to him,” Cry urged. His legs were down on the ground now, but most of his weight was still being supported by Vanoss. “I’ll explain everything later.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Cry tried to stand upright, bracing himself on Vanoss, but it only lasted a few moments before he crumpled back into him.

“Hey, take it easy. You did the hard part of your job,” Vanoss assured. “It’s all easy from here.”

Cry grunted.

Ohm dropped his hands from Marzia’s chair, and she pulled her hands forward and rubbed at her wrists, eyes fixed on Cry.

“Cry?”

“Go, Marzia. I’ll catch up.”

“You promise?”

“Promise. Now go.”

Marzia turned and, with one last fearful look over her shoulder, ran along the narrow metal walkway to the window.

“Del, Toonz, you’re next.” Ohm turned to the complicated-looking contraption near his feet. “Breeze off while I start this.”

“We’ll wait at the spot,” Toonz promised, and then they too left through the open window.

“So,” Cry murmured as Ohm crouched and started fiddling, “still want to kill me?”

Ohm froze, then sighed and looked away. “You should have gone through with it. Mercy did nothing for me.”

“I dunno ‘bout that,” Cry said critically, even as Vanoss listened very carefully. Maybe he would finally learn why Ohm had attacked Cry at Freddy’s. “You’ve got yourself a dedicated team. I’d even say they love you and consider you family, since they’ve stuck around you for so long.”

Ohm swallowed, clicked something into place, and stood. “We’ve got thirty seconds before the first of the charges go off. Let’s go.”

Ohm crossed through the window first, giving Vanoss just enough time to realize he wouldn’t be able to climb through the bars with Cry hanging off him.

Cry seemed to realize it too, letting go and slumping against the wall. “I’ll go last.”

“But-” Vanoss wasn’t about to leave him—Cry could barely move as it was.

“You’re going to need to pull me through.”

Vanoss hesitated a second longer, then nodded and slid through the bars. It was a little awkward to do it with his arm strapped across his chest, but he managed.

By the time he looked back, Cry was dragging himself towards the bars, hand-over-hand along the walkway’s railing. A look of raw determination was on his face.

That was when the first of Ohm’s explosives went.

The whole building shook. Several loose tiles slid off the roof—one narrowly missed hitting Ohm. Sections of the wall crumbled as their support gave way.

The walkway on which Cry was standing pitched, sending him tumbling with a grunt.

There was a shriek of metal.

The walkway fell.

Cry vanished from sight.

Vanoss opened his mouth in a wordless shout, reaching to slide back through the bars—he wasn’t sure what he was doing, it was practically suicide to go back in now, but he had to help—only for Ohm to grab his shoulder and shove him towards the ladder.

“Go! I’ll get him.”

“But-”

Ohm disappeared through the window, vanishing into the rapidly growing orange glow.

Vanoss hesitated until a second set of explosions rocked the whole structure. Ohm had warned them of the third series: they were the explosions that would tear the walls apart—and erase any evidence that Felix had, in fact, not been killed in the warehouse.

Self-preservation won out, and Vanoss was to the ladder and descending as quickly as he could with one functioning arm before he could question his decision.

The second he could land safely, Vanoss dropped and hit the ground running.

He’d barely passed the border Ohm had designated as “safe” when a series of ground-rocking explosions tore through the air, sending him tumbling into mud and snow. He could feel a wave of heat at his back. Suddenly, hands grabbed at him, pulling him up.

“Ohm?” Del asked, something making his voice break.

Vanoss shook his head. “Cry fell. Ohm went after him. He said he’d catch up.”

A long pause.

“Well,” Toonz said thickly, staring at the furiously burning ruins of the warehouse, “I didn’t see anyone get out after you.”

“Ohm’s talented,” Del said, though the unease in his voice was clear. “I’m sure he managed and just has to get Cry to safety before he catches up.”

Another long pause.

“Let’s head home.” Toonz’s voice shook. “We don’t want to be here when the bulls arrive.”

Vanoss stared helplessly at the inferno in front of them before turning and following the other two remaining members of the BBC.

There was still hope, right? By some miracle, Ohm and Cry had made it out.

He wasn’t sure he believed in miracles.


	63. No Other Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)  
>  Today's chapter includes lyrics from [All the Way](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJPc49z57bU) and [Take Back the Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrIPF-t5ewE)

Leather straps sliding against material, the delicate sound of small buckles, and abrupt clicks as Jordan checked the ammo in his pistol—these were the only sounds in PJ’s office. It felt wrong, to be standing here, watching. Only watching, and not preparing alongside his men.

“Jordan-” PJ started.

Jordan didn’t bother glancing over his shoulder.

“You’re not coming.”

“I have to.”

“No, Peej.” Now Jordan turned, stashing his pistol in his coat pocket. “We can’t risk you.” His eyes narrowed, cutting through any excuses PJ could have come up with. “Even if we were willing, you’re in no condition to be out tonight.”

PJ wanted to protest, to assure his friend that he was doing fine, but the way Jordan was looking at him made it impossible to pretend otherwise. Neither of them could ignore just how heavily he was leaning on the back of a chair for support.

There was a beat of silence. Jordan looked away—but not in time to hide a flash of pity. Something curled in PJ’s gut (guilt? Anger, even?) but he pushed the feeling away.

“What am I supposed to do, then? I won’t be able to sleep with so much going on.”

Jordan shrugged, and his gaze flickered back up to meet PJ’s.

“That’s not my problem. Listen to music, if you want.” He took a deep breath. “Did you want Rhett’s head brought back, or are you satisfied with news of him being dead?”

“I don’t need any heads.”

Jordan lifted his hands slightly, his lips twitching.

“It would make a very pointed statement, y’know. Look nice on the wall.”

“Jordan.”

Jordan smiled darkly.

“Get some rest, Peej. We’ll be back in a few hours, and the potatoes will be down a boss.”

Jordan walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. PJ sank into the chair, his entire body trembling.

Listen to music. What music would he listen to? His hands were shaking too much these days for him to be able to play well, but there was the radio, and a few dozen records in the shelf next to his desk.

He didn’t want to listen to music, though. He didn’t want to sit and  _ wait _ . He wanted to be out helping. He  _ needed _ to be out helping, not just hiding at the house.

He was the godfather. It was his duty.

The house was silent as PJ sat there, contemplating. He found himself at the table in the corner of the room, studying the pins and strings and scribbled notes containing the night’s plans, illuminated by the light of the full moon cast across the floor and walls.

_ Right here, in the darkness, there’s nothing left for me to do. _

Everyone was out, aside for Luna and Amanda, who had already sought their beds.

_ It’s easier to run away—but today... _

He should sleep. He should rest. Jordan was right; PJ wasn’t in any condition to be going out in the cold. Not after he’d already lost so much sleep and spent so much energy on the Family in the past few weeks.

_ Today we got to- _

PJ pushed himself to his feet, reaching for his coat and his pistol.

_ Cast the shadows out from sight. _

He wasn’t going to just sit and wait for them to return. It didn’t matter that Jordan wouldn’t like it; if PJ did this right, Jordan would never know PJ was there.

_ A final stand; a shouting cry. _

PJ dropped his loaded pistol into his coat pocket and walked out of the room.

\-----

Jack stood in the doorway, surveying the damage. The streetlamp outside silhouetted his form; a chill breeze stirred his coat and set the mix of scattered cards and snow flying. Upended tables and splintered chairs made for strange forms in the dim light.

A spray of sparks illuminated the scene—a lamp had been wrenched off the ceiling, leaving wires trailing down. It detailed the fresh blood, and lit Jack’s face. There was a deep scowl, and something dark and painful in his eyes.

Rhett’s footsteps were heavy as he approached Jack from inside the destroyed building.

“Link’s headed back; we should go too. Rumor has it bulls will be in the area tonight.”

Jack sighed, then turned away from the destroyed gambling ring.

“The noodles won’t be far.” The blood on the ground was still fresh, and sparks were still flickering from where lights had been broken. This time, they’d arrived in time to watch one of his men take his last few breaths. Too many of his men had died alone.

Too many had died.

“This has gone on long enough.”

Rhett shifted in place, then pulled something out of his pocket.

“They didn’t go far at all. Link found this in the back.”

Jack took the paper, holding it up to the light. There was an address scrawled on it.

“It’ll be a trap.”

“Yes.” Rhett sighed. “But we need ta stop them. They’re killing us off, one by one.”

“I know.” Jack frowned and handed the paper back, then tilted his head, as if gesturing at something unseen. “Get yer men. We’ll give ‘em what they want. I don’t have time to fetch my rifle, but I do have my pistol. I’ll grab extra shots. You and your men get their attention; I’ll flank them and pick ‘em off.”

Rhett nodded grimly. “Be careful. We can’t afford ta lose you right now.”

“Oh, is that care I hear?” Jack raised an eyebrow, a smile twitching across his face despite the severity of the situation.

“No.” Rhett shook his head. “You’re imagining that.”

“Good. I was getting concerned.” Jack turned and walked away, footsteps crunching in the snow.

He knew how far he would go to keep his men safe, but he wasn’t sure Maron knew. Granted, the only time they’d ever really exchanged words was when Jack had a gun to the new godfather’s head.

Now; now he was going to go as far as he needed to. 

Jack smiled faintly and started humming.

_ All the way. _

\-----

PJ dug his fingers into the brick wall next to him, keeping himself upright. He was gazing out into the intersection Jordan had chosen for the ambush. 

There were plenty of places to hide: thick shadows, and countless alleys and building nooks. Men were already settled, guns out, waiting for the Irish to show up. A few of the men had spread out into the nearby blocks, ready to funnel anyone who tried to break away back into the area.

It would be a slaughter.

A hand grabbed PJ’s shoulder, and he was yanked around to face a clearly furious Jordan.

“PJ,” Jordan hissed, “ _ what _ are you doing.”

PJ crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes, and didn’t reply.

Jordan scowled and started dragging him to the door to the inside of the building PJ was peeking around.

“You didn’t listen to a single thing I said, did you.”

“I have to do this,” PJ replied, his voice scratching painfully in his throat. He didn’t  _ care _ if his body was weak. He was determined to see this through, for the Family.

“No.” Jordan closed the door and pushed PJ towards the window. “Sit there. Keep your head down. Don’t get shot, or seen. I don’t want to have to babysit you in a firefight.”

PJ scowled and sat under the windowsill, effectively disappearing from outside view.

Jordan pulled off his rifle and set it on the table for easy access, before doing the same with his pistol and his extra ammo.

“How long until they get here?” PJ finally asked, reaching into his pocket to brush against his pistol. It was cold to the touch, but he doubted it stay that way for long. He was meaning to put his gun to good use.

“Not long, now.” Jordan checked his pistol for ammo—the second time tonight; PJ supposed it was a habit to keep his hands busy. “The note was deliberately hard to miss.” He put the pistol down and picked up his rifle.

“Now, you’re going to just sit there and watch the door. You’re armed?”

PJ nodded.

“Good. You’re not completely reckless.” Jordan shouldered his rifle, preparing for the inevitable firestorm.

PJ couldn’t help but glance out the window Jordan would be shooting through. This... tonight, the record would be set right. The potatoes would be crippled by the loss of Rhett, already weak from the sheer number of men Jordan and Zombie had been cutting down the past several months... they’d be able to move in and finish them off.

_ All the wrongs, now turned to right. _

A tiny voice in the back of his head pointed out he was doing exactly what Jack had said he would: that everyone was disappointed in him for the things he’d done; that he was a bad friend, and a bad godfather.

PJ pushed the thoughts aside.

_ So fight the past- _

His job was to get the Family back to power—back to the strength they’d had when he was just a child—and keep them there. The job would take more than a few murders, but that was the only way to really clear the competition.

_ Take back the night! _

\-----

The first of the shots echoed through the streets before Jack arrived at the intersection, and he cursed. 

_ That’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad. _

Jack darted forward and took in the view. Instantly, he ducked sideways, a bullet shattering the brickwork next to him. A few shards hit his arm, and probably would have sliced through skin had he not been wearing a coat.

Jack readjusted his grip on the pistol and stepped out. This might not be his rifle, but his aim hadn’t gotten any worse by switching weapons.

It was then he saw just how  _ many  _ mafia were around the intersection.

Just a second later, and Jack ducked back behind cover, slipping a little on a hidden patch of ice, leaving three of the noodles bleeding out on the street.

_ Feels good to be a winner, every now and then. _

When he peeked around the corner again, he got a pretty good look at Rhett ducking behind cover—and three of his own men going down, two of them obviously never to get up again.

There was the briefest of pauses in the shooting, and Jack took that chance to dart out, sliding behind a jalopy. The sharp sound of bullets sounded off behind him as men shrieked and sought out cover—and bodies hit the snow-covered, blood-splattered ground.

Shit.

Coming here had been a mistake. They’d  _ known _ it was a trap, and they’d come. It was his own blind anger and impulse that were getting his men killed—getting his men  _ slaughtered. _

Getting them slaughtered  _ again. _

Now it was beyond time for him to get them out of there.

_ All the way. Keep on goin’. _

As soon as the gunfire paused, he wasted no time jumping back out into the open. The Italians were now the ones dodging bullets, and Jack saw more than a few shots land true with a grim satisfaction.

"Rhett!" He pushed his lungs to the limits, reaching out to his cohort. "Go! Get everyone to safety!  _ Now! _ "

PJ froze—then whipped around to stare out the broken window at Jack’s voice.

Was that- had  _ Jack _ given Rhett an order?

Why would  _ he...? _

PJ’s fingers curled around his gun, and he pulled it out without taking his eyes off Jack.

His gaze remained fixed on his old friend, even when Jack fired shots that sent PJ’s men—some he knew to be one of Jordan’s good friends—into the snow.

_ Bridges burned and broken, on different sides, we start anew. _

Jack cursed Rhett's stubbornness as the man refused to leave him behind.

"We don't have much time- just make sure  _ everybody gets out of here! _ "

"You're 'everyone', too!"

That was it, then. That was all the confirmation PJ needed, and without another thought he  was lining up the shot. In order for their plan to work, they had to take care of the Irish mob’s boss.

_ Being faced by monsters; to face head, on or be consumed- _

"Just  _ go _ !"

PJ pulled the trigger.

_ Take back the night! _

Jack crumpled.

Blood soaked through the snow around his head. He was still.

Rhett’s eyes widened, shouts tore through the air and, within seconds, the only members of the Irish mob on the streets were the ones unmoving in their own blood.


	64. We Burn Ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)  
>  Today's chapter includes lyrics from ["Danny Boy"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQ9W5bxJs3w)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains reference to/depictions of suicide, suicidal thoughts, self-harm and death. If you would like to know more details, feel free to send an ask or message us on the blog; we’ll be sure to answer.
> 
> There is a text barrier (**********) in the chapter both before and after the main triggering content, so those who would still like to read the chapter can avoid it if they so wish.
> 
> Happy reading, and stay safe c:

Mark paced behind the desk, processing the news the reporters had given him. The office was quiet for a few moments.

“You’re sure?”

Dan nodded, his gaze dark and uncertain, as Phil shifted in place.

“Okay.” He stepped out into the break room, meeting the team’s eyes—and those of the Grumps and JP. ”We need to get everyone out; we’re closing. It’s too dangerous tonight.”

Mark caught JP’s arm as he turned away, getting a surprised squeak in return.

“Give Molly my apologies. I’m going to have to take steps to get rid of evidence.”

JP nodded, frowned, then exited the speakeasy.

“What’re you doing?” Amy asked softly, putting a hand on Mark’s shoulder.

“Grab everything you need from upstairs. Anything you don’t want to lose. Make sure Marzipan is safe, and do it quickly.” Mark looked between Amy and Kathryn. “Then get in the car. I’ll join you in a few minutes, then we’ll go to Molly.”

Amy nodded slowly, though her eyes were still filled with worry.

“You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?” Ethan eyed Mark with suspicion as the two walked through the kitchen and out into the main room.

“No, I’m definitely doing stupid things.” Before Ethan could protest, Mark added, “Keep them safe.”

He ducked back into the kitchen, listening to Ethan shouting out his order to leave. He could hear the indignant voices being raised—some patrons complaining that the night had only just begun, others wanting money back for the drinks they’d yet to finish—but they were soon replaced by the rumble of many footsteps.  

After rummaging through far too many drawers he finally pulled out some matches. Mark waited for the last murmur of voices to fade (one of the Grumps was convincing a likely drunk patron that is was indeed safe to go out the front entrance, even though it had never been previously allowed) before he made his way to the basement.

\-----

“He said he was getting rid of evidence,” Phil murmured softly as the two of them were pulled along in the crowd.

Dan glanced back at the front entrance. To most, evidence was a trail of incriminating paperwork, or a weapon left behind at a scene. But here, in Mark’s case, it was a whole building.

The detectives would be here in less than an hour. There was only one way to go about removing evidence like this. There was only one way to do it so quickly.

Mark was going to burn it down.

\-----

Mark didn’t let the match drop. Not until the clatter of two pairs of heels and the familiar sound of the back door swinging shut signalled that Amy and Kathryn were safe. The joint was clear.

The match fell.

Its tiny flame touched a puddle of liquid, and it blossomed into pale orange tongues licking at the edges, racing along, pausing for the slightest of moments at every splintered barrel. It coated the walls with its slowly shifting light.

He began to feel the heat of this tiny fire, and the light washed over his face with a golden glow. Who knew the destruction of his own creation could be so beautiful.

And then-

It seemed only moments later.

The fire was roaring, the heat just about physically pushing him back, and the support beams were groaning at the efforts of the fire. There was another wave of heat as a small barrel in the back, one he had missed, went up in a fireball.

The fire was scorching the ceiling. Smoke was filling the air.

It was time to get out.

\-----

This place had always been a source of stability. It was where he came when things were bad, and it made it all… it made everything very nearly manageable.

Dan looked up from his usual seat in the corner booth. He could make out the silhouette of the piano, just barely, at its place on the stage.

The lights were out. It was quiet. Dark. Safe.

Each of his footfalls made the floorboards creak. Some of the loosest boards allowed a flickering glow through. He could already smell the smoke.

The sound of the stage was familiar as he stepped up onto the raised platform, as was that of the bench as he took his seat at the piano. The white keys glistened in what little light was available. They were smooth, and slightly cool to his fingertips. The one key that was always loose… it was still loose.

It had never caused any problems, though. So he hadn’t told anyone about it. He’d always liked the little imperfection.

His eyes drifted closed, and he took a deep breath. Some part of his mind remarked at just how much smoke was now filling this room, but it was soon brushed aside. It didn’t matter. What mattered right now was the music.

What mattered now was this last song.

\-----

“Idiot, you idiot, you god damned idiot,” Mark muttered to himself as he staggered up the basement stairs, patting forcefully at a smoldering sleeve. He had left himself an escape route while he’d smashed all the barrels, but the slanted floor had directed a stream of alcohol to his exit. He’d had to jump through an impressive sheet of flames to get to the stairs.

That split second of passing through fire—where everything was just heat and light and he couldn’t breathe at all—had been horrible. Luckily, he’d be out soon. He wouldn’t have to deal with the fire any more.

First, he had to stop by his office. There was a photograph he couldn’t leave behind.

\-----

Phil hadn’t noticed when Dan stopped moving with the rest of the patrons.

He hadn’t noticed when Dan, with slow steps and a heavy gaze, re-entered the speakeasy.

He hadn’t noticed any of it—until it was too late.

\-----

It only took him a few minutes, but that had been enough for the office to fill with smoke. Mark had tied a strip of cloth around his mouth and nose, and through the tears in his eyes he’d finally managed to find the photo.

It was old. He usually kept it in a desk drawer, but he’d brought it out a few days ago as the anniversary of his death got closer, and of course it had then been buried under papers. It was the only photograph he had of his father and himself—the only one where his father didn’t have that shadow of disappointment drawn over his eyes. He’d been too young to disappoint his father.

A splintering crash and the roar of a re-energized blaze shook Mark back to his senses.

_Right._ The building was burning down.

With shaking fingers he freed the photo from its frame, and tucked it under his shirt. He rounded his desk, reached for the doorknob-

Wait.

Was that _piano music_ he could hear?

\-----

His voice was cracked, fragile, ready to splinter. Still, he sang quietly. He’d give Freddy’s this last send off; he’d give all of them these last words.

_But when ye come, and all the flow'rs are dying_

_If I am dead, as dead I well may be_

_You'll come and find the place where I am lying_

_And kneel and say an ave there for me.”_

Dan choked, then coughed, unable to continue.

He pushed past it.

**********************************************************************

The pain in his throat didn’t matter. The agony he felt with each breath was just as meaningless. He had no reason to care about these things. It would all end soon enough.

Dan’s fingers moved on their own accord, tracing out old movements over the keys. He wouldn’t continue playing a song anymore; he would just let the music go where it pleased. Music had always been the one single thing that he could depend on- the one single thing that could draw feeling out- the one thing that actually _helped,_ and had no expectations of him.

Even Phil had those, and while his were the lightest to carry, they still weighed heavily on Dan’s shoulders.

He bowed over the piano. His eyes were squeezed shut against the smoke, but still, tears leaked out of the corners.

It would soon be over. It would finally, _finally_ be over. The damned emptiness. The terrors he had at night, the sudden bursts of anger or panic he had to quash. The hours of wondering whether any hint of feeling or emotion would make it through the haze of _nothing_.

And Phil…

Phil would finally be able to live his own life. Dan wouldn’t be there to hold him back; not any more. He’d no longer be the burden, disguised as a friend.

God. He’d been so _stupid_ to try to get through this. To keep going. So incredibly, unbelievably stupid. There was something unfixable about him. Both he and Phil had seen it. Now Phil—ever the optimist, always willing to help Dan, _even though Dan didn’t deserve a moment of it_ —would finally be free of him. He couldn’t ruin Phil’s life any further.

There were flames licking up through the floorboards; devouring the wallpaper. Some danced at the edge of the stage, as though taunting Dan, keeping his end at bay—then the curtain caught fire, and it raced to the man sitting at the piano, and Dan’s world was aflame.

**********************************************************************

\-----

Mark’s lungs were burning. His chest was aching and, if he was careless enough to allow it, a deep breath of smoke sent him into a coughing fit. His broken ribs, still healing, protested with each spasm.

He’d stepped through the door between the office and the bar—the “dangling door,” as Wade had fondly dubbed it upon completion—but the smoke was so thick. He couldn’t see where he was going, which wasn’t a problem. He had the whole building memorized; he’d be able to navigate it in his sleep. The real problem was the fact that _he couldn’t breathe._

With one hand he groped along the counter, narrowly avoiding tripping over an upended barstool. There: the bar sink.

The cold water came as a shock, then as a relief as he replaced a now-damp cloth over his nose and mouth.

Seconds later he was staggering out into the main room, taking in the sheets of flame climbing up each wall and straining for the ceiling, the crackling fires consuming every chair and table, and the rapidly burning curtain beside him, before his gaze landed on a figure.

Slumped, nearly unconscious, and spasming every so often with a hacking cough—yet the young man’s fingers were still gliding over the keys of the piano, as though he was determined that the last thing he would do before his death was play a song.

Not if Mark could help it.

\-----

Dan knew his clothes were on fire. He could feel his skin blister with the heat.

He didn’t care.

Dan knew the piano was aflame. Some of the keys weren’t making a sound. Of course, most of the notes he played he couldn’t hear over the roar of the blaze.

He didn’t care.

He kept playing.

The music was the only thing he had left.

It wasn’t the sudden cool dampness covering the lower half of his face that brought him to full consciousness—although it certainly pulled him towards the surface.

No, it was the arms under his, lifting him away from the piano—from the music!—and dragging him away, off the stage, across the groaning, sagging, splintering floor-

“...No!” His voice was broken, shredded to pieces by the smoke. The cloth muffled it. The near-rumble of the fire hid it even further.

Somehow, this person still heard him.

“I am _not_ letting anyone die in my restaurant.”

Wilford? No, not Wilford. This was undeniably Mark.

His voice was just as torn up as Dan’s. It was barely recognizable. Still, it couldn’t be anyone else.

“Please. Let me… let me go back,” Dan wheezed. “Let me die. I just want it to be over-”

“Not here.” No matter how breathless, pain-filled and damaged by smoke Mark’s voice was, it still carried that quiet force. “Not tonight.”

A series of echoing cracks gave a split second of forewarning. Mark heaved Dan to his feet, then pushed him at the front door-

Dan slammed into the glass pane, and it shattered as it swung open, and he tumbled onto the shards and down the few short steps-

And the ceiling over the front entrance collapsed.

\-----

His world narrowed down to nothing but the limp form of his best friend.

“Dan!”

That one single word—that one single name that meant more to him than his own—it ripped out of him, raw and broken. Phil scrambled forwards, not caring if he elbowed a few people or opened his palm on bits of glass.

He had to know if….

A breath. A moan. Dan’s eyelids were flickering, his face was screwing up with agony- _he was alive!_

A flash of an unrestrained grin, then Phil’s expression sobered as he took in the damage.

“You need the hospital. Now.” It was a good thing he could already hear the wail of many sirens.

“He’s still in there-” Dan was interrupted by a coughing fit. It left flecks of blood on the brick sidewalk, the fresh red glistening gold in the light of the blaze.

Phil’s mind went still.

“...Who?”

“Mark. He’s still inside. I have to-” Dan was struggling to his knees, apparently ignorant to every injury that _should_ be rendering him immobile.

“It’s my fault he…”

Phil grasped Dan by the shoulders and drew him down, nestled into Phil’s chest. Phil could only gaze at the building, watch as the flames burst out the windows and black smoke billowed from within.

“I’m sorry, Dan,” Phil whispered.

The roar of the fire silenced the crowd behind the two; it drowned out even the sirens.

“He’s gone.”


	65. Card up a Sleeve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

The two detectives had been waiting in their office for the time to come to head down to Madame Foxglove’s speakeasy. Their office was dark; they’d turned off the overhead lights, and while the blinds were still open, there was no outside light filtering in through the windows.

MatPat had been waiting—and watching the clock, and thinking.

Gar, on the other hand, had fallen asleep an hour or so ago.

Months of work had led them to this point. Foxglove's operation would go up in smoke. Ideally, without any shots fired.

It was time to get going now, though, so MatPat walked over to his partner and shook him awake.

“Merry Christmas, Gar.” The words felt a bit foreign, considering what they were planning on doing, but it was the only day of the entire year MatPat would get to say them—and Gar, the only one he would say them  _ to, _ considering both Jason and Steph were gone—so he was going to say them.

Gar rubbed his eyes and replied with a bleary, “Merry Christmas, Matthew,” before getting to his feet and rolling his neck.

“It’s time?”

“Just about.” MatPat hesitated, glancing at the clock once more. “I need to take care of something first, and didn’t want to leave waking you until the last minute.”

Gar rubbed his face again.

“Sorry about falling asleep.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been working hard.” MatPat patted Gar on the shoulder, clearly troubled by something. “Go head over when you’re ready. I’ll meet you there.”

Gar frowned. This wasn’t the way things had gone with the previous speakeasy.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just…” MatPat sighed. “I don’t think Judge Fischbach has anything to do with this, and-” He stopped there, trying to articulate his feelings.

“You’re going to warn him.” Gar could understand that.

MatPat nodded, relief flickering across his face.

“Okay.” Gar glanced at the clock himself. “It’s midnight, though. Do you think he’s awake?”

“He’ll be at the courthouse still.” MatPat grimaced. “He’s got even more work over the holidays than we do.”

Gar winced.

“Ouch.” That was an impressive, if unfortunate, claim. After all, not only had they been doing the speakeasy work, but they’d been helping a lot of officers out where they could.

“I’ll work my way over, then.” Gar stretched slightly before reaching for his coat and hat. “I’m sure someone’s headed to that part of town and I can catch a ride.”

“Well, if not, take a motorcycle.” The unspoken ‘just don’t walk alone at this time of night’ hung between them, but neither felt particularly threatened by it.

“I’ll be there in half an hour, at most,” MatPat continued, “but try not to be in the open too long. It’s bound to be freezing out there.”

“I know the plan,” Gar assured, “including the meeting spot. I’ll be there.”

“Good.” MatPat glanced at the clock once more before turning and walking out of the room.

Gar tapped his fingers on his desk for a moment, his own thoughts returning to what he’d been contemplating before he’d dozed off.

Patrck’s odd behavior was still occurring, and Gar was the only one who seemed to be noticing it. There were a couple possible explanations, but Gar knew Patrck too well to think that any of them were even vaguely possible.

No, there was only one thing that really made sense.

He gathered up his coat, making sure the pockets held his required items for disguise. He couldn’t afford to be recognized at the speakeasy.

Then he walked over to the office telephone mounted on the wall and dialed a number he had memorized a long time ago.

After a quick word with the operator, he was connected. The other side clicked softly, and only the softest breath answered. Those who didn’t know better would have thought they’d been disconnected, or that they’d reached an incorrect number.

Gar knew better.

“I need you to do something for me. There’s a woman in danger, and you’re the only person I trust with her.”

A long, long moment of nothing but silence.

“Who’s the target?” Minx’s voice asked simply.

Gar rattled off the information, including the address and how she was in danger, then hung up before anyone could see him on the phone. He took a deep breath, buttoned his coat, threw on his scarf and slid on his hat, then headed out.

“Detective Bluemoon,” the temporary chief called as Gar walked through the main floor, looking rather frazzled, “since you’re headed to South Boston, can you pick up Officer Static on your way? We just got reports of a firefight and we need him there.”

“I’d have to take a motorcycle.”

“That’s fine.” The temporary chief paused and scribbled an address on a paper. “He’ll be needed here.”

Gar dipped his head, stuffed the paper into his pocket, and headed out.

\-----

Gar pulled the motorcycle to a stop outside Patrck’s apartment and kicked down the stand before walking up the stairs to a door.

It creaked open by itself, dangling by a single hinge.

Gar frowned and pulled out his gun, ready for trouble. Then he carefully pushed the door the rest of the way open.

“Pat?”

No response.

Gar stepped inside, his gaze darting around.

The front room of the apartment was completely trashed: pictures were torn off the wall, furniture upended and dumped in weird places, and a rug pushed against a table’s legs.

In the middle of it all, Patrck was sitting on the floor, head buried in his hands.

“Pat?” Gar spoke quietly, not daring to go above a whisper. “What happened?”

He knew exactly what had happened. He was the one who had called to make it happen.

Patrck slowly lifted his head, tears streaming down his face.

“They took her.” His voice was high, tight, choked by the tears. He swallowed thickly. “They took Marie.”

Gar had already known, but those words just confirmed what he’d been worried about. Good thing Minx had gotten to Marie first. Considering the things Cry had reported nearly a year ago, who knew what could have happened to her if Gar hadn’t stepped in.

Gar frowned and crouched next to Patrck, putting a hand on his shoulder. “...Are you okay?”

“How could I be okay?” His voice cracked as Patrck shook his head, but he didn’t pull away. “She’s  _ gone.” _

Gar drew in a long breath. He hated to see his friend like this—and he was about to make things harder.

“I hate to make things worse, but... you got called in. There’s stuff going down in South Boston. A firefight between the Irish and Italians—or so I’ve been told.”

Patrck’s hands shook as he wiped his face with his sleeve, but he nodded.

“I’ve got a motorcycle to get us there.” Gar stashed his pistol back in its regular place and pulled out the address. “Here’s where you’re heading.” He stood slowly, fidgeting with the key to the motorcycle. “I’ll drive, so you can compose yourself.”

Patrck was silent as he followed Gar out, and remained silent as they started to nyoom down the otherwise silent streets of Boston.

Snow was just beginning to fall. The tiny flakes were little pinpricks of cold against Gar’s face and hands, and he desperately wished he’d remembered to bring gloves. He was also regretting tucking his hat into the safety of his coat—he hadn’t wanted to risk the wind sweeping it away, but it looked like Pat’s hat was faring well. Patrck’s arms wrapped tightly around Gar’s torso to keep from falling off, and his hands kept clenching and unclenching against Gar’s chest.

Gar’s lower legs were soaked with snow and slush thrown up by the front tire by the time they could hear the first of the sirens—and the unmistakable glow of a nearby fire became evident.

It seemed about where their mysterious speakeasy should be.

Gar took a deep breath and slowed the motorcycle, then pulled to a stop at the side of the road. He blew on his hands in an effort to warm them up, and, as soon as Patrck had released his grip on his chest, twisted around to look at him.

Patrck looked up from brushing snow off his hat.

“Is this where we split ways?” Patrck asked quietly.

Gar nodded, dismounting.

He didn’t walk away, though.

“Pat?”

“Hmm?” Patrck absently shook his hat before putting it back on. He shifted up to where Gar had been sitting.

“Why didn’t you ask for help with whoever is blackmailing you?”

Patrck stiffened, a horrified expression crossing his face. “How did-” He cut himself off.

“I put it together.”

Patrck swallowed, his hand dropping to his pocket.

“You didn’t tell anyone, did you?” Patrck’s voice was shaking; cracking, like it would break at any moment. “God, is  _ that _ why they took Marie-”

“What? No!” Gar raised his hands, halting Patrck. “No, I kept it to myself. I didn’t tell anyone, not even MatPat.”

“They found out, somehow!” Patrck was shouting now. “Or maybe I did something- and they took her! Fuck, Gar, don’t you get it? Even if you’re right, and they don’t know that you know-” he slammed a fist on the handlebar- “they’ll find out.  _ They’ll find out!” _

A curtain twitched in a window. Their voices has been loud before—now, they were yelling, and it was echoing down the street. The sirens were too far away to drown this conversation out.

“Patrck, please. Calm down.”

Gar didn’t realize his mistake until he saw a flicker of rage deep in Patrck’s eyes.

“Don’t you fucking  _ dare _ tell me to calm down,” Patrck spat. His voice was fractionally quieter—maybe he’d seen the curtain too?—but it still rang through the frigid air.

Gar had never felt so uneasy around his friend before.

“Look, please just- I can help, okay? We can look for her. I can find out if she’s safe-”

“That’s just going to get her killed, Gar!” Patrck was leaning forward on the motorcycle, face screwed up into an expression somewhere between fear and desperate anger, his eyes locked onto Gar’s.

Something in Gar’s expression must have betrayed him— _ of course _ Gar would help, even just by getting a letter from Marie to Pat—because in the next second Gar watched something break in his friend.

He hardly got any warning.

Patrck withdrew his hand from his pocket.

There was a glint of the streetlamp’s golden light on the barrel of the gun.

A shouted “no” lodged itself in Gar’s throat. The heavy rustle of his wool coat whispered through the silence as he stepped to the side, in a last-ditch attempt to-

_ Bang. _

Patrck swallowed as Gar hit the ground heavily, blood spreading across his chest and spraying across the snow. It was impossible to tell exactly where he’d hit him, but it didn’t matter. Without help, Gar would bleed to death.

Gar struggled, trying to move, trying to get up. But the snow, wet and heavy with his own blood, weighed him down; the ice afforded him no traction. Each attempt left his mind hazier, until he couldn’t focus. Gar just laid there in the snow, gasping with shallow breaths. It was all he could do: breathe through the pain.

With a murmured, broken apology Patrck tucked his gun back into his pocket and kicked the motorcycle into action.

He couldn’t risk his blackmailer finding out Gar knew. They’d kill Marie.

That didn’t stop him from glancing over his shoulder to see if Gar was getting up.

He wasn’t.


	66. Gathering the Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: this chapter contains both animal death and pretty blatant human death.

Dan was still coughing up blood as the ambulance medics pulled him out of Phil’s arms.

“We’ll be taking him to Mass. General,” one of them told Phil. “You can find him there.”

Phil craned to look behind the medic, into the ambulance, where Dan was limp across a stretcher. “Can’t I come along? I-”

The medic was already shaking their head.

“We don’t have the space—not with the firefight that happened a few blocks away.” They squinted at the still-burning shell of the Tiny Box. “Was there anyone else injured?”

Dan’s words echoed in Phil’s mind, and he shook his head.

“Nobody who made it out.”

The medic nodded grimly, turning back to head to the ambulance.

“Alright. Then we’re off.”

Phil swallowed as the ambulance—and Dan—left from view, then straightened his shoulders.

If he started walking now, he might get to the hospital before Dan woke up.

\-----

The snow underfoot was stained red. There were dark pools around bodies, and splatters marring the white. Some of the men on the ground had first responders crouched around them; they were the lucky few who were still alive. The rest of the bodies had only a single trail of footsteps leading to, and away, from the dark forms.

The Wolf quietly walked up to the small, still form of Sean “Jack” McLoughlin. He’d come looking for Gar, worried he’d been caught in the crossfire—but his son wasn’t here.

Jack, however, was.

They must have taken one look at him, and written him off as dead.

The Wolf crouched, his fingers slipping under a scarf and feeling for a pulse. Then he turned Jack’s head to face the sky, revealing the awful damage PJ’s shot had done. The eye was gone, the socket a bloody mess, and shards of bone glinted in the lamplight.

He scooped up some of the nearby snow and packed it tightly into the wound. It could have been his imagination, but he thought he heard a faint gasp of pain. Certainly there was a bodily, if weak, flinch.

“Do you remember me?” he asked softly, undoing his scarf. “It’s been over a decade; I wouldn’t be surprised if the answer is no.”

Jack didn’t respond, but he seemed to twitch slightly at The Wolf’s voice, as if listening.

“Or maybe you do. I imagine it would be hard to forget the person who taught you how to shoot.” The Wolf placed his scarf over the wound. “I thought we had a talk about how you’re safer sniping and far away from the action before I left Ireland.” He shook his head softly. “Look at where not listening got you.”

He leaned over and pulled out the shoelaces of Jack’s shoes, continuing to speak as he did so.

“You’re stubborn, at least, clinging on to life like this. Though stubbornness is probably what got you shot in the first place.” The Wolf shook his head, tying the laces together and slipping the improvised band under Jack’s head.

He tied the shoelaces, pinning the scarf in place over Jack’s wound, then carefully pulled Jack into a sitting position.

Jack flopped unresponsively, head lolling back.

It took quite a bit of effort, but the Wolf finally got Jack onto his back and started carrying him out of the intersection. Nobody spoke to him, much less tried to stop him.

He walked out, Jack limp on his back, uninterrupted.

\-----

Vanoss’ arm hurt.

He must have slammed it into something when he was running from the explosives, or maybe he’d simply wrenched it and put the still-fragile muscles and tendons under too much strain.

It was nothing compared to the hurt filling his heart.

There was still no sign of Ohm, or Cry.

Nobody was supposed to get hurt. That hadn’t been in the plan; they were just supposed to be pulling a fast one on whoever had hired them to take care of Felix. That’s what their orders had been. They’d known it was a dangerous game, especially since this person—who had contacted them in handwriting Cry had identified as having seen on a blackmail letter the previous year—had been confirmed to be working with Mir. And now that Mir was out-

Vanoss froze.

Mir was out.

The head of the Russian mob had been released from prison and was now a free man.

Vanoss looked up from the ground, pushing the thought aside. He didn’t need anything else to make his day bad.

As if waiting for him to think that, faint gasping reached his ears.

“Do you hear that?” He looked around.

“I’m sure someone got mugged, is all,” Del said quietly. “They’ll walk it off. Or freeze. Not our problem.”

Vanoss sent him a nasty look, though he knew Del couldn’t see it through their masks, and followed the sound.

He found a familiar face grimacing with pain.

“Toonz- Del-” Vanoss stared at the familiar face of the Wolf Pup. “Get over here.”

“We can’t help them-” Del broke off as he walked up.  _ “Oh.” _

“Oh?” Toonz walked up, then froze. “Oh… shit.”

Vanoss decided to ignore them and crouched next to the Wolf Pup.

Gar’s eyes were half-open, and he was looking in Vanoss’ direction, but his gaze was unfocused.

Toonz cursed and crouched as well, reaching to the blood soaking the front of the Wolf Pup’s coat and quickly undoing buttons.

“Hey, can you hear me?” Vanoss asked, waving his hand in front of the Wolf Pup’s face.

The only reaction was a blink, and the smallest of nods, but even that could have been a trick of the light.

“He got shot,” Toonz said, pulling open the coat to reveal the wound at Gar’s shoulder, still oozing blood.

Gar’s eyes moved to Toonz. He wasn’t quite unconscious then, but he had to be close.

“We’ve got to get him to the medical ward,” Del said.

Toonz nodded, sliding his arm under Gar and lifting slightly.

A low moan of pain escaped Gar, and Vanoss winced before using his good arm to help. It took Del slinging Gar’s arms over Toonz and Vanoss’ shoulders and helping them stand before they had him up. Several things fell out of Gar’s pockets in the process, and they left them in the snow. They had no time to waste.

“Come on,” Toonz urged. “Let’s go.”

It was surprisingly difficult to haul Gar between them. For a few blocks, it seemed like he was trying to walk—did he recognize their masks, then; enough to trust them?—but his efforts became less and less helpful as they moved along.

They came to a chain link fence. The large swathe of property it surrounded was old, and hardly used for anything but storage. The way around it to the headquarters was long.

Vanoss glanced at Gar. Maybe too long.

\-----

Del moved past Vanoss and Toonz, and the limp form of the Wolf Pup hanging between them. He’d been afraid they were a few blocks off—but no, there it was. His own little shortcut.

“Look, it’s a quicker way there, okay?” Del held the chainlink back, revealing a gap in the fence. “I’ve been through this way millions of times. There’s nothing to it, and it’ll cut off a good 10, maybe 15 minutes off.”

Toonz shifted and glanced at Gar. The young man was bleeding heavily; all the movement had completely reopened the wound. It was more than the cold that was making his skin so pallid.

“The Wolf Pup does need that time,” he said quietly, meeting Vanoss’ eyes. The two of them tightened their grip on Gar, supporting most of his weight.

“Let’s go.”

It took them a few minutes to realize they were being followed. It wasn’t a person, though; it was a dog. With matted fur that did little to hide its scrawny frame, the dog’s eyes held a wild hunger as it padded along, following the trail of fresh blood Gar left in the snow with each faltering step.

“How much time until we reach the other side?” Toonz asked.

Del cast a wary glance behind them. A second stray had joined the first.

“We’re about halfway through,” he replied, his hand straying to the gun tucked in his coat pocket. He laughed nervously. “I don’t remember this damn pack of dogs, though.”

By the time the fence was in sight, the pack behind them had grown to at least a dozen. And the strays were getting bold: darting forward, lips curling back to reveal teeth, some of them barking at the men.

And still, Gar trailed fresh, hot blood across the snow.

The barest whisper of paws skimming through snow was the only warning Del got before a weight slammed into his legs. He turned with a yell, arm swinging, and the side of his pistol hit the dog’s muzzle. It yelped, and sprang back with a snarl.

“Del! What’s going on back there?” Vanoss and Toonz didn’t risk turning around. They were focused on getting Gar to the fence.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Del hollered, chuckling as the pack approached. “Good doggies,” he murmured, holding his empty hand out, “nice doggies, sweet doggies… you wouldn’t hurt old Del, now, would you?”

With a feral snarl a few of the strays bounded forward, and Del scrambled back, holding his gun out in front of him. The first bullet went between the eyes of a particularly large hound, and its body collapsed mid-leap. Del swallowed back a cry as the second stray sank its teeth in his arm—luckily, it wasn’t the one holding his gun. Two more bullets; two more dead dogs.

The rest of the pack was howling, now. A few had bolted at the gunshots, and two were approaching the first corpse, clearly salivating.  The rest had their eyes pinned on Del.

“Del?”

“Go,” Del shouted, “get the Wolf Pup to safety. We aren’t losing him this time.”

The three others had reached the fence, and were pushing the now completely limp body of Gar through the much smaller hole. Vanoss was on the other side, and doing his best to lift the wounded man’s small form up off the snow with his one functioning arm. Toonz, however, was standing, and looking back as the pack of strays slowly approached his friend.

“Vanoss, go. I’ll help Del out. We’ll see you back at the headquarters.”

“But-”

Toonz started back toward Del.

“You’ll probably find us in the medical ward.” he chuckled harshly.

“I’m not going to leave-”

“Go!” Toonz snarled. He didn’t turn to watch Vanoss stumble away, dragging Gar alongside. He didn’t want that to be the last image he had of his friend.

Toonz ran up behind Del, yelling nonsense at the top of his lungs. The dogs scrambled back, the whites of their eyes showing.

“Holy fuck,” Del whispered in the ensuing silence, “you think that was loud enough?”

“Obviously not,” Toonz muttered as the two of them studied the pack. It was eerie, watching these animals creep forward, their eyes catching the distant lamplight, and their growls a deep rumble in the otherwise silent night.

They held their pistols out in front of them, and took a step back. With that tiniest of movements, however, came a reaction the two of them weren’t expecting: the whole pack, tense and quiet up to this moment, sprang forwards with flashing teeth and loud baying.

Neither of them had to say it. They turned tail and ran, sprinting for the gap in the fence. They would make it; they were fast.

The dogs were faster.

Del cried out first; a stray clamped its jaw around his ankle, dragging him down into the icy snow. He frantically kicked out with his other foot, his fearful laughter sounding maniacal—then Toonz hauled him up and pushed him forwards.

By the time they reached the fence, they were bloody and wounded. Toonz turned and began to fire, hitting the dogs one by one as Del scrambled through—then Del began to shoot, and Toonz was on the other side.

Del suddenly froze, then handed Toonz his gun. Quickly, his hands shaking, he undid his belt and looped it through the fence, closing the exit-

Then the dogs were there, and one had his arm in its mouth, and Del was screaming as its teeth ripped through his flesh and muscle and bit into his bone-

Another dog latched onto his upper arm, shaking its head as its teeth tore through everything-

Toonz was shouting, and firing, and trying to pull Del back-

The belt loosened-

Del was thrown back as the strays pushed their way out. One went for his throat. The screaming stopped after a moment.

Toonz wasn’t firing anymore; he’d run out of bullets. There were only four dogs left anyway. The blood from every body stained the snow crimson.

It was many minutes before the grunts and yowls ended. The dark forms of wounded, limping dogs disappeared into an alley.

Toonz dragged himself to Del’s body. The eyes were glassy, and the body had already begun to cool. He sat there, in the red snow, sobbing, until the cold and his own injuries overtook him.

\-----

Vanoss’ shoulder was screaming by the time he managed to get inside the headquarters, and he was honestly surprised he hadn’t dropped Gar.

As soon as the Wolf Pup was pulled away and into the medical ward, Vanoss was being pulled aside by the Wolf. Questions were asked that Vanoss didn't have answers to: who had shot Gar, did the plan go as they'd hoped, where were the other three, where was Cry... it was a rather long list.

Finally, the Wolf sent Vanoss to his apartment to rest—the apartment he shared with the rest of the BBC. The rooms were eerily empty and quiet. Their half-decorated Christmas tree was propped in the corner, poorly wrapped presents labeled in all-too-familiar handwriting.

Vanoss stared at them for a minute. They were supposed to be opening them now. That was the deal. They would open them after they got back from the mission.

But he was the only one here.

He walked over and toed the small stack with his name on them—no doubt containing some form of stolen goods, or something about owls—and frowned. It wasn't right to open them. Not with the others still out there.

He didn’t know what he’d do with the gifts if they never showed up.

Vanoss dropped into a chair, pulling his mask off with a sigh before reaching over to the candle and matches Ohm kept on the side table. They'd always joked it was a fire hazard, with Ohm replying that 'burning down headquarters would get them a newer place to live,' but they'd also always made sure to put out all flames before they went to sleep or left the apartment.

Vanoss just looked at the lit match for a long, long minute, until the flame was nearly burning his fingertips.

It was so small—flickering wildly as its fuel died out, providing the barest amount of warmth.

It was the baby version of the flames that had been engulfing the warehouse.

Vanoss took out another match and actually lit the candle this time, staring at the flame once more.

Ohm should have gotten back right around the same time as Vanoss, right? Even with dragging Cry along. Definitely by the time the Wolf had finished questioning Vanoss.

Right?

And Del and Toonz—they shouldn't have been far behind, either. Maybe a few minutes, if that.

Vanoss buried his face in his hands. There were so many possibilities, and none of them were good.

He was broken from his despair by a knock on the door—the door to the passageways and rooms that made up Boston's Faceless headquarters; not the one the public could access through outer doors.

He grabbed his mask, sliding it back on as he opened the door, only to be faced with the familiar mask of Bryce.

"I'm sorry to disturb you after what happened, but... they need you to identify bodies."

"Wh... what?"

"They think it's Cartoonz and Delirious, but their masks have been mangled by dogs and... their faces aren't much better. You knew them best, so they sent me to get you."

Vanoss gripped the doorframe, trying not to sink to the ground.

"Oh."

Numbness was spreading through him as he followed Bryce through the halls to the medical ward. For a brief second, when he saw the mangled corpses of the men he'd called friends, it was replaced by a surge of raw anger and grief, but then there was nothing again.

When he was told that Ohm hadn't been found anywhere in the city and that his body was likely unretrievable, Vanoss could barely nod in response.

When he got back to his apartment—and it was just his now, wasn't it—he collapsed into that same chair and stared blankly at the candle.

Del and Toonz were gone. Their funerals were being planned without him, though he would be expected to attend.

At least they would get funerals, though.

Ohm... Ohm's body must have been destroyed by the fire caused by his own explosives.

The thought made Vanoss smile sadly, bitterly. It was a fitting end for Ohm, in a way.

If only it hadn't left Vanoss completely alone.

\-----

The front door to Mass. General Hospital opened and Phil staggered inside.

“I’m here to see Daniel Howell,” Phil said, his voice shaky. “Also, there’s still some very jumpy mobsters out there. I had a run-in with a few trigger-happy specimens.” He lifted his arm, revealing a horrific gunshot wound and shattered bone.

Then he crumpled.


	67. Changing Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

Sophie buried her face in her hands, her half-packed bag sitting next to her on the bed.

“How long will I be gone?” Her voice was quiet and shaky.

“Until it’s safe for you to come back,” Molly replied from the doorway to Sophie’s room. Her voice was just as soft. “It could be weeks. It could be months.” A pause. “It could be never.”

Sophie swallowed, stood, and started packing again.

She was in danger because of the man she loved. PJ wouldn’t do anything to hurt her himself, she knew that, but the same couldn’t be said for any of his Family—or for any of the McLaughlin Boys who had witnessed her defending PJ that night in Freddy’s.

“Am I allowed to tell my family where you’re taking me?”

Molly shook her head. “Not until the danger dies down. Someone could overhear them talking about you, or follow them to you if they visit.”

Sophie’s hands shook as she packed the remainder of the things she would be taking with her, but nodded. Better for them to be safe and worried than in danger. Even if things never really did settle, surely Molly had some way to let them know she was alright.

“Okay.” She grabbed her bag and held it tight. “Am I allowed to know where you’re taking me?”

“For now, to a Greenhouse. It might be safe enough for now, and I’d rather not take you further away than I have to. If I need to move you again, well... we’ll figure that out then.”

Sophie bit her lip, but nodded.

Molly turned and started walking, and Sophie followed. Neither dared make too much noise, or they’d risk waking her family.

In the front room, something in the corner near the door glinted in the dim light.

Sophie froze as she recognized it, then slowly bent down and picked it up.

A pink pearl.

It must have flown into the corner when she’d broken the necklace those months ago. How had she not seen it, all this time?

“Sophie?”

Sophie rolled the pearl between her fingers, then clutched it tightly. The rest of the necklace had been repaired and was sitting in her bag.

“Can I see him?”

Molly looked at Sophie’s hand and frowned. She knew who Sophie was talking about.

“That’s dangerous.”

“You know where the headquarters are, though, right? You  _ could _ take me there to see him?”

“I could. But it would also put you in a vulnerable situation, if someone decides to act.”

Sophie swallowed. She had to see PJ one last time before she vanished from the face of the earth; she had to let him know she was going to be fine.

Molly tilted her head. “Why do you want to go so badly, even if it could kill you?”

Sophie clutched the pearl tighter.

“You know the answer to that.”

Molly sighed.

“You love a dangerous man.”

“He won’t let anyone hurt me.” Of that, she was certain. He loved her too much.

He loved her. Sophie uncurled her hand to look at the pearl once more. He’d been willing to give her everything, he loved her so much. And, if the words he’d murmured in the alley behind Freddy’s were any indication, he still felt that way.

“If you’re sure,” Molly said slowly.

“I am.”

“Alright. You’ll only get a few minutes, but…”

“It will be enough.”

It really wouldn’t. She didn’t want to leave him—she didn’t have much of a choice.

If only she’d decided this months ago; she could have saved herself and PJ a whole lot of heartbreak.

Molly was silent as she drove them to a very unfamiliar part of town, giving Sophie time to dig through her bag. She out the necklace PJ had given her and clasped it around her neck.

“Are you armed?” Molly asked as they pulled up to a magnificent and well-kept house. 

“No.” This is where the mafia had their headquarters? It looked like a place people could live in. Did PJ live here?

“Do you know how to use a gun?”

Sophie shook her head.

“No point in giving you one, then.” She opened the car door. “Let’s not linger too long.”

As they walked up to the door, it seemed neither particularly wanted the other to go first—nor did they want to go first themselves, so ended up walking side-by-side.

Sophie, though, was the one to knock.

It was nearly one in the morning. What was she doing knocking on PJ’s door at one in the morning? Surely he was sleeping.

The door opened.

Sophie didn’t recognize the woman standing there, or the infant sleeping against her.

The woman’s eyes flicked to Molly, and some of the color drained from her face.

“You don’t need to be scared of me,” Molly said softly.

“You’re here on business, aren’t you?”

“I have no intention of taking you away, not unless that’s what you want.” Molly looked at Sophie. “I’m here on her request.”

The woman’s gaze turned back to Sophie, this time with more scrutiny. “And what do you want?”

“To speak with PJ.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “May I ask who you are?”

“I’m Sophie.”

The woman raised her other eyebrow, eyes widening slightly. She looked at Sophie for a minute longer, clearly seeing her in a new light.

“You’re not Italian.”

Sophie swallowed.

“No.”

The woman hesitated, then stepped aside.

“He’s not here, but you’re welcome to come in and wait until he gets back.” She looked at Molly. “You too; as long as you’re not here to kill anyone.”

“I’d prefer to avoid it.”

She nodded, and Molly and Sophie entered the house.

Almost instantly, they came face-to-face with a young man. He took one look at Molly and paled.

Molly’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

Did Molly recognize the young man? Why would she know one of the men in the mafia?

Unless he’d been one of the ones that had tried to kill her and Wade all those months ago.

Nobody spoke as time stretched on. The woman was walking the room, softly bouncing the baby to keep them asleep; the young man was standing there with his eyes flicking between the two of them, and Molly was stood with her arms crossed. Sophie had no idea  _ what  _ to say, so she remained silent as well, the warm pearl clutched in her hand a small comfort.

Soft footsteps sounded, and another person entered the room.

This one, Sophie recognized. He’d shown up at Freddy’s the night PJ had apologized.

He froze as his gaze landed on Sophie and Molly, and then he scowled.

“What are they doing here?”

“Yami,” the woman said softly, but sharply. “Don’t wake Luna.”

The man straightened his suit and walked over to them, coming face to face with Sophie.

“Get out.”

Sophie straightened her shoulders and met his eyes.

“No.”

He lifted a hand as if to manhandle her, but Molly unfolded her arms and pointedly stuck a hand into her pocket.

“I wouldn’t.”

Yami let his hand drop and glared stiffly at them, his own hand dropping to his suit pocket. “I should have known the two of you were working together to beguile him.”

Molly sighed and rolled her eyes.

“If I wanted him dead, you can be assured I would have taken care of the job months ago.”

Whatever Yami was going to say was cut off by a sharp voice outside, and the door opening.

Several grumbling voices spilled into the room, and men came in. They smelled of gunpowder and sweat and blood. Some were injured, some weren’t, but they were all obviously packing heavy-duty firearms.

They also all clearly recognized Molly.

Molly lifted her head.

“Yami,” came another unfamiliar voice, and a man emerged from the crowd, “what’re they doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Yami replied. “I came down to them here.”

“They’re for PJ to deal with,” Amanda said simply, even as her baby began to stir and move around.

The new man took a deep breath.

“Then why hasn’t he dealt with them?”

“He’s not here.”

He stood up straight, alarm flashing through his features.

“What? Where is he?”

Amanda shrugged. 

“He disappeared after Jordan left, but I don’t think he was with Jordan.”

The man’s face darkened, and he cursed. Then, “Gunner, keep them out of the way.”

The young man who had been so afraid of Molly nodded slowly.

“Yes, Zombie.”

Zombie turned, but Yami put an arm out to stop him.

“You can’t go. If something’s happened to him, we need you here.”

Zombie sent a glare in their direction.

“I know someone we could ask.”

“I haven’t even seen him,” Molly replied blandly. “Which is apparently the same as you.”

Zombie took a threatening step towards her, and she narrowed her eyes cooly.

Neither of the two seemed interested in looking away first—some sort of power play, Sophie guessed—but that left her looking around. Most of the men who had come in had already left, and the few remaining ones were getting medical treatment and then heading out themselves.

The door opened again, but this time only two people walked through.

Sophie recognized them immediately.

Jordan was gripping PJ’s arm, a disgruntled expression on his face, rifle slung across his back.

PJ...

PJ looked halfway to death.

His head was hanging, hair falling in front of his face. There was no spring to his step, and the coat that had fit him so perfectly at the beginning of fall now hung loosely on his bony frame. At some point, PJ had lost weight he couldn’t really afford to.

“PJ!” Yami stepped forward, concern warring with frustration in his tone.

Zombie broke eye contact with Molly to turn, his frown deepening.

PJ lifted his head slowly, but his hair remained covering half his face. PJ’s revealed left eye flicked to Yami, then to Zombie, then to Molly. Confusion flicked across his face—and then his gaze moved to Sophie.

Instantly, the smallest of smiles touched his lips, and he pulled away from Jordan.

Confusion flickered across Zombie’s face, and Yami scowled.

Sophie didn’t even hesitate to step forwards and throw her arms around PJ.

He stiffened for the slightest of seconds, but then his arms were going around her and his face nestling in her hair.

Gasps sounded from behind her.

“I...” PJ murmured, his voice strained.

“I should have listened to you,” Sophie murmured back, pulling away and lifting PJ’s head with her hand.

He looked even worse up close, and his normally brilliant eyes were dull, but he offered her a smile all the same.

She reached up and brushed his hair out of his face. “You’re a mess.”

“I know.”

“Is this-” Zombie started.

“Hush,” Molly hissed.

A troubled look came over PJ’s face.

“It’s not safe for you here.”

“I don’t care. I had to come see you.”

“Sophie-”

She put a hand on his mouth. “I won’t be here long. I promise.”

PJ unwrapped one arm to touch the pearls around Sophie’s neck.

“You kept it.”

“I wasn’t going to, but... I made my decision.” She smiled reassuringly at PJ’s hesitance, and her hand grasped his, pushing the small pearl into his palm. “I made the decision the second I stepped between you and Jack.”

A hesitant smile spread across PJ’s face, and it was a full grin by the time she was finished speaking. He closed his fist around the pink pearl.

Several words started forming on PJ’s lips, only to stop and be discarded before they made any sounds. Finally, he lowered his head next to hers. 

“Can I kiss you?”

“In front of everyone?”

PJ gave a breathless laugh. “What can I say; I live on the edge.”

Despite herself, Sophie smiled.

“Yes. Kiss me, PJ.”

PJ’s lips were cracked, and his entire frame shook slightly in Sophie’s hold, but, for a few seconds, that didn’t seem to matter. The startled gasps behind them didn’t seem to matter, nor the satisfied chuckle that had to be Jordan.

All that mattered was that she and PJ were happy.

As PJ pulled away, she murmured a very particular set of three words only he could hear. 

And then PJ’s grasp on her loosened, and his fingers slipped away, and PJ collapsed on the spot.


	68. Another Missing Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

Sirens echoed through the streets of Boston, stirring the most curious from their beds to peer out of their windows.

MatPat walked up to the Tiny Box. Tom ran ahead of him. They could see fire.

A  _ lot _ of fire.

It was only when he managed to work his way through the small crowd that had gathered could he see the full extent of the inferno engulfing what had once been the Tiny Box.

“Mark.”

Tom’s utterance of his brother’s name was barely audible over the roaring and crackling and snapping of the fire.

_ “Mark!” _ Tom darted forward, only stopping when MatPat grabbed his arm. “No, don’t- Mark!”

MatPat pulled him back. “You don’t know that he’s in there.”

Tom tried to pull away, only for MatPat to tighten his hold on him. “I-” He stared at the blaze helplessly. “He has to-”

“He reportedly went in after someone,” said the voice of Justice Arthur Carpett, and MatPat looked over to see him walking up with an expression of disgust on his face, “though the fact that he knew anyone was inside after hours speaks rather loudly, now doesn’t it.”

“His girlfriend  _ lives  _ above the restaurant,” Tom snapped.

“Not any more, she doesn’t.” Carpett clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his head. “Detective Patrick?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Arrest Mr. Fischbach, on grounds of associating with an illegal speakeasy establishment. Or whatever else fits there.”

MatPat blinked.

“Sir?”

Carpett walked off. “I’ll see you in court, Fischbach.”

MatPat turned a horrified gaze to Tom, even as Tom crumpled to his knees and stared helplessly at the fire.

“I don’t-” MatPat cut himself off and instead swallowed. If he didn’t follow orders, he was going to be in a lot of trouble himself. “You didn’t  _ do  _ anything.”

“Just do it,” Tom choked out. “We both know he won’t hesitate to get you fired for disobedience.”

“I’d rather get fired than arrest you.”

Tom just moved his hands behind his back. While his message was unspoken, MatPat heard it loud and clear: if he didn’t arrest Tom, Carpett would get someone else to. There was no solution in sight.

MatPat choked down his next protest and dug his hand into his pocket for his handcuffs. 

“I-” MatPat forced down the lump in his throat as he clicked them around Tom’s wrists. “I’m sorry.”

Tom’s shoulders started to shake, and tears streaked down his face, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Jason Thomas Fischbach, you’re under arrest on order of Justice Carpett.” The words were bitter as they fell from MatPat’s mouth, and he wished there was a way out of this.

Tom stood as MatPat tugged on his arm, but didn’t bother to do anything but turn away from the shell that used to be the Tiny Box.

As MatPat led Tom away, he realized something else: Gar was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t been waiting in the agreed rendez-vous; he wasn’t in the dispersing crowd of people. He hadn’t come up to MatPat at all.

He should have been here.

MatPat looked through the crowd again, panic growing with each face that wasn’t Gar’s.

Where was he?

He wasn’t the only one to realize Gar was missing, as evidenced when Bob came up to them and, very simply, said, “I’ll take Tom from here. You make sure Gar’s not in any trouble.”

Tom didn’t react much as MatPat took his handcuffs off him and Bob fastened his own on, but he did send one last look over his shoulder at the dying blaze as Bob pulled him away.

MatPat stowed his handcuffs back in his pocket before turning and shouldering his way through the crowd again.

Still, no sign of Gar.

MatPat ran a hand through his hair and glanced down both sides of the street. Gar would have had no reason to come at the Tiny Box from behind. Logically, the best place to start looking was one of these streets.

There were other police officers down that way. They’d let him know if they found Gar, so MatPat turned the other way and started walking.

What would Gar’s most likely path of travel have been? Chances were, he’d been on a motorcycle, so he would have tried to avoid residential streets as much as possible. He wasn’t the kind to get lost on his way to a place they’d been so many times before.

No, something had to be wrong.

Two blocks away from the Tiny Box, MatPat skidded on a particularly slippery patch of ice.

As soon as he regained his footing, he looked down—and his heart caught in his throat.

He’d slipped on frozen… blood? It was hard to tell in the dim lighting offered by the nearby street lamp.

It was definitely blood, MatPat realized as he studied the ground. It was too red to be anything else.

His gaze rose from the awfully large patch of frozen blood, and his heart missed a beat.

There, in the gutter, was a familiar journal.

MatPat bent down and picked it up.

“Gar…” He brushed at the blood staining the upper back of the journal. Gar always had this on him. “What happened?”

MatPat tucked the journal into his coat pocket and peered at the ground again, this time looking for clues. Gar’s journal was here, and what was all too likely Gar’s blood stained the snow. But there was no other evidence pointing to where Gar himself could have gone.

It took MatPat a few minutes of pacing around the frozen blood, watching the street light glint off of it, before he noticed a trail of red drops leading away.

Hope surged through MatPat. If Gar had been in good enough condition to move, then maybe he was somewhere safe.

As the trail of blood left the main streets and ventured onto ones still thick with snow, it became obvious someone had been dragging Gar away. Not a full-body drag, though; Gar had been somewhat conscious, or they wanted him upright for some reason.

There were several sets of footprints, too: one on either side of Gar’s trail of blood and another that alternated between in front and behind.

How had Gar gotten hurt? He’d ended up in the gutter at one point or another—that was where MatPat had found his journal, after all—and he’d been bleeding. Had he been attacked? If so, who would want to attack him? Gar didn’t have any enemies.

MatPat froze.

Gar did have one.

Mir.

Mir, who had tried to kill Gar before.

MatPat curled his hand around Gar’s journal in his pocket, then picked up the pace. If Mir had Gar, then he obviously had plans for him. After all, MatPat hadn’t found Gar’s body in that gutter. There weren’t many reasons to drag an injured person along if you were just planning on killing them later.

That meant MatPat had a chance of getting Gar to safety.

When the trail moved from the sidewalk through a gap in a fence, MatPat didn’t hesitate to follow. He probably shouldn’t have, considering he had no idea what was ahead of him—for all he knew, it was a trap of some kind—but he didn’t care.

He wasn’t going to lose Gar too.

His steps faltered when he came across the first signs of a fight, and he paused for a split second when he came across the first set of dog remains. Well, he thought it used to be a dog, but it was half-eaten, so it was hard to tell.

What had happened here?

As MatPat progressed, this time with his hand resting on his gun in his pocket, he found several more dog corpses and a few bullet casings—and more blood. Some of it was bound to belong to the dogs (one of which whined as he got close, and he gave it a large berth just in case), but surely not all of it.

MatPat slipped through the smaller gap in the fence, paling as he took in the sight.

This entire area had clearly been combed over. Footprints trampled the snow, scattered the red, and were headed in every possible direction. There was enough blood to suggest at least one human hadn’t survived, if not two, but there weren’t any bodies.

And, worse, the trail of Gar’s blood disappeared.

Someone had clearly been taking steps to hide the tracks. And they clearly hadn’t wanted to be identified as the ones who had taken Gar, since these bodies had been removed.

MatPat frowned. Maybe the people who had taken Gar had gotten into a fight here—an opposing group of some kind, maybe? He wasn’t sure who would get in a fight with Mir’s men. Well, besides the McLaughlin Boys, or the Liguori Family.

But what would they want with Gar?

There were a couple possible answers to that. Maybe they wanted revenge on Boston’s law enforcement—though Gar hadn’t been wearing his badge clearly, since they’d been going undercover, so they would’ve had to have recognized him.

Maybe they wanted revenge on MatPat. He certainly had enough enemies.

MatPat paced around the large patch of blood, looking off into the distance several times, trying to figure out where they—whoever  _ they _ were—might have taken Gar. He was right near Russian territory—but Italian and Irish territory had their borders around here too.

He didn’t know where any of them would have taken Gar.

MatPat looked up once again. He was in Irish territory right now, and he wasn’t quite sure where the border was, but wasn’t there areas none of the mobs dared claim?

MatPat frowned. It was rather odd, now that he thought about it. Why wouldn’t the mobs do anything? They had territory fights, so had the men and the means, so why didn’t they just… claim that land?

MatPat was missing something; that much was obvious.

He was missing several things, Steph and Gar being the most important of them.

He stuck his hand in his pocket, and his fingers brushed over Gar’s journal.

MatPat hesitated, then pulled it out and turned it over in his hands. Could it, maybe, hold clues? If Mir was the one to take Gar, maybe MatPat could find out what had gone on between Gar and Mir in the past. He would have something to work off of, then. He’d have a starting point.

He'd promised Gar he’d never look into this journal when he’d given it to him, but… if it would help him save Gar, he was willing to break that promise a thousand times over.

“I’ll get you back,” MatPat murmured, shoving the journal back into his pocket and turning down the street. He would read it later. In the meantime, he had to let Mr. Bluemoon know his son had disappeared.

Gar had disappeared.

Mir had taken Gar away, and MatPat had failed him.


	69. For His Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

Felix’s footsteps crunched softly in the fresh snow covering the graveyard, and the falling flakes brushed his top hat and scarf and shoulders of his coat with white.

Mourners had long-since dispersed the area, allowing Felix to grieve privately.

He came to a stop in front of a grave reading “Fischbach,” and the small stone memorial next to it.

Mark’s body hadn’t been retrieved. The Tiny Box had burned for nearly twelve hours before firefighters managed to put it out, leaving nothing but char and rubble. There was no remains of anything inside the restaurant, much less of the man who had loved it so much.

Felix crouched next to Mark’s memorial.

“Molly has told me that Amy, Kathryn and Ethan are all safe with her.” His voice was cracked; broken with grief. “The general public assumes they’re dead, and their bodies were burned like yours.”

He hung his head in silence. After a few minutes he cleared his throat.

“Dan and Phil are both in the hospital. It looks like they’re going to survive…” Felix sighed shakily as he trailed off. “I don’t know how they’re going to afford it. I would help, but… the amount of attention they’d get from that won’t do anything but hurt them in the long run. Dan, especially.” He pressed a hand to his face, hot tears finally running down his face.

“PJ is sick; collapsed Christmas morning. I guess the stress finally got to him—either that, or he was doing a worse job of taking care of himself than you did. Marzia tells me they’re forcing him to rest, but she didn’t exactly say who ‘they’ are.”

Felix buried his face in his hands.

“Your brother is in prison, awaiting trial for ‘association with a speakeasy’. Your mothers can’t afford bail, and even if they could, he’s lost his job. Nobody wants him to be a judge now.”

Felix swallowed.

“As for Jack, well… I hope he’s somewhere around you. Cry-” Felix broke off as a sob tore through him. “Cry too.”

Felix wasn’t sure how long he was there, grief tumbling uncontrollably out of him, sobbing to the memorial stone, but he finally fell silent.

“Mark, what am I supposed to do?” Felix whispered. “I’m so alone. You, Jack, Cry- I lost you all in one night. I won’t be able to talk to PJ much until he’s better, but even then… he has his Family business to run. My life is a mess, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

The rock, despite being a fancy rock with carvings in it, was still a rock and didn’t answer.

Felix stood, and closed his eyes. A few tears slipped out and ran down his cheeks.

“You always cared so much about other people, even when it meant risking your own life.”

Even when it meant losing it.

“I had a gift for you,” Felix murmured softly, not sure why he was still talking, just that it helped ease the ache filling him, “and I was going to give it to you once you came over for Christmas dinner, but…” It had been part of a joint effort with Jack, planned before Jack had practically banned himself from Freddy’s: all the top-quality supplies Mark would have needed when Jack handed ownership of Chica over to Mark.

Felix sighed.

And then, very slowly, he opened his eyes and set his shoulders.

He had something he needed to do.

\-----

Felix’s footsteps echoed dully throughout the halls of the prison as he walked to the cell. The prison guard with him hummed something tuneless as he rifled through his keys.

“You brought this upon yourself, you know.”

Felix looked up at the sound of a voice drifting down the hall. At first, he thought it might be someone else paying a different inmate a visit.

“I tried to warn you. I tried to keep you on the straight and narrow; the right path.”

Yet as they neared the appropriate cell, Felix realized he knew that voice. He knew that wheezy, pompous, holier-than-thou tone all too well and instantly his hackles rose.

“That brother of yours was nothing but trouble.”

“Please, don’t bring him up…”

Tom’s voice, in contrast to that of his ex-boss, was nothing more than a soft, defeated croak. Felix’s distaste at Carpett’s presence warred instantly with concern for the brother Mark had always spoke the world of. As the Supreme Justice came into view, he knew then and there precisely how he would handle the situation. Felix smoothed out his expression, squared his shoulders and lifted his head up high. He called upon the grace and poise schooled into him from a young age by his parents; the face all his friends knew to be reserved only for public appearances.

Tom didn’t look up as they came to a stop in front of his cell. It was questionable if he’d been looking at Carpett at all.

Felix allowed himself a small frown as he took in the sight. Tom was bruised and battered—likely at the hands of prisoners who had been given their sentence by the former judge—but that wasn’t what was most concerning to Felix.

No: that was the empty look on Tom’s face.

Clearly, however much Tom’s body hurt, his heart hurt more.

“Fischbach,” the prison guard said, unlocking the door and sliding it open. “Your bail was met. You’re free to go.”

That statement seemed to finally draw the full attention of Carpett, who had probably dismissed them as passing through to a different cell. Felix wasn’t sure if Carpett’s eyes narrowed because of his presence or the guard’s words, but his displeasure was palpable. It took all of Felix’s learned composure not to smile.

Slowly, Tom looked up.

“…How? It was almost a mil-”

Felix clasped his hands behind his back as Tom looked at him.

“Kjellberg?” Tom asked faintly.

Felix gave his dazzling public grin.

“Come along, Fischbach. We’ve much to discuss.”

“You can’t tell me you honestly came to bail this traitorous liar out. You scarcely know him.” Carpett intervened, indignant awe mixing with the fury on his face, looking to the guard as if the man might back him up. Fortunately, the prison guards were about as indifferent to the visitors as they were the prisoners. Felix could tell the man just wanted to wrap this up so he could return to his desk.

Tom slowly stood, clearly still confused, before the guard pushed him out of the cell and ushered him next to Felix.

“What’s…” Tom swallowed.

“Come on.” Felix started walking.

Tom didn’t have much choice but to follow.

“Wait just a  _ moment. _ ” Carpett continued to argue, following them- well, Felix supposed he would have to, seeing as the man he’d come to rip into was leaving. “Why would you spend a decent amount of your fortune to bail out a corrupt judge? He broke the law. He  _ deserves _ to spend time behind bars.”

“I know what his brother did. I’ve seen the papers.” Felix kept his tone light and indifferent, as if Carpett were nothing more than a buzzing gnat.

“Then you know he must have had a part in it, and abused his place as a judge-”

“I know that there happen to be far too many corrupt men in this city.” Felix kept the words clipped, the steady clack of his cane on the floor almost providing an emphasis. “And I know Mr. Fischbach isn’t one of them.”

Oh, it was so satisfying to see the shade of purple Carpett turned when he realized Felix hadn’t included his name.

“You don’t  _ know  _ that-”

“I happen to have had a  _ very  _ reliable source on the content of Mr. Fischbach’s character.”

“And just who would that be?” They’d come to a stop, as Tom needed to collect the valuables which had been confiscated the day he was admitted.

Felix turned to shoot Carpett just about the most disdainful side-eye he could muster.

“Mark Fischbach.”

Tom seemed to give a full bodied shudder at the sound of his deceased brother’s name, his face crumpling.

Comfort would have to wait. Carpett, in contrast, looked liable to blow a fuse. His face was contorted with stunned rage and he worked his jaw, no doubt attempting to find the words. When he failed, he straightened up his position, clearly trying to stand toe-to-toe with the modern aristocrat.

“Very well, then. Far be it from me to halt the inner workings of our beloved justice system, but… I will tell you what I told Mr. Fischbach, Mr. Kjellberg. Mind the company you keep. If you’re not careful, you may find  _ yourself  _ behind a set of these bars. Money can’t save you from everything.” Carpett fixed Felix with a pointed glower. Felix hoped he was disappointed when the look didn’t so much as phase him, and that Felix had deigned his advice undeserving of a response. The justice left without another word, no doubt fuming, and Felix had never been more proud to be an insufferable asshole.

They’d barely made it to the car when Tom cursed, sifting through the possessions he’d reclaimed. Felix quirked a brow in silent question and Tom frowned.

“My glasses. I gave them up when I was admitted for safekeeping, but… they didn’t give them back. My vision isn’t hitting on all eight when I don’t-”

“I’ll go fetch them for you.”

Tom looked back up to Felix in surprise.

“What? No. You don’t have to do that, I’ll go. They’re my glasses…”

“You’ve spent enough time in that prison. I’d like to avoid seeing you step foot in that building again. It’ll only take a moment; just sit tight.” Felix didn’t leave any room for argument, and was relieved when Tom conceded with a nod.

“Swell.” Climbing out of his car, he returned to the visitor check-in, bringing up the issue with the officer posted there.

“I don’t remember getting any eyeglasses.”

“My friend is rather emphatic. They’re important to him, and expensive. Could you check?” Felix zeroed in on the officer with his best “I’m higher status than you and make more money in a month than you could in your lifetime” stare. It semi-worked, at least, as the officer caved and retreated to the back. Now it was just a matter of waiting.

“What do you mean, he was just released on bail? Who in Boston with enough money to cover his fines would sponsor that criminal’s release?”

Felix couldn’t help but shift his gaze towards the voice, which carried a heavy Russian accent. Across the room, he spied two massive men, each easily standing at nearly six foot with chests—and arms—built like barrels. Between them was a much shorter, plumper man who was furiously conversing with the unfortunate officer behind the desk.

“A-apologies, sir. We aren’t authorized to share that information-”

_ “Fignya.”  _ The Russian snapped, scowling. “The ex-judge’s reputation is in ruins, his name has become a stigma upon our society—high class and low alike. There is  _ no man  _ in Boston who would want him freed.”

Rather than attempt to dissuade the angry man again, the officer’s eyes pointedly shifted to Felix. To his credit, Felix maintained his composure, despite the fact he suddenly had three rather intimidating men staring him down. Subtly, he straightened his posture, lifting his head high and squaring his shoulders. He normally  _ hated  _ sticking up his nose at people, but this situation definitely called for it. They were all posturing, metaphorically showing off their talons and feathers, trying to intimidate the offending party. The Russian knew this game, but Felix could play it better.

After what felt like hours, the growing tension in the room was finally dispelled as the officer Felix had been dealing with returned. Oblivious to the stand-off, he set the glasses on the desk, voice an irritated grumble.

“Found’em. Anything  _ else  _ I can help you with, Mr. Kjellberg?”

Felix spared the spectacles only a glance, before returning his cool gaze to the trio a few yards away.

“No, that’ll be all, thank you.” Determined to maintain the high ground, Felix reached up to give a little tilt of his hat, nodding in acknowledgment to the Russians. “Gentlemen.” Then, without another word, he grabbed up the eyeglasses and took his leave. Felix was forced to ignore the glaring red flags in his mind screaming at him to  _ run _ , to  _ hide _ , to get somewhere safe. He maintained his composure all the way back to the car, passing a relieved Tom his glasses.

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.” Felix decided it would be best for everyone if he kept the little incident to himself, and started up the automobile.

It wasn’t until they were pulling out of the compound that Tom spoke again.

“Why… Why did you do that?” Tom blinked.

Felix pulled away from the prison before he answered.

“Because you didn’t break any laws. You don’t belong in there.”

Tom’s shoulders tightened.

“And how do you know that? You’re just an egg.”

“Yes. I am.” He pursed his lips. “You’ll see, in time.” He tilted his head and glanced over. “In the meantime, you’re in need of a job, aren’t you?”

Tom’s shoulders slumped.

“Someone has to support our- my mothers, now that the Tiny Box is gone.”

Felix nodded.

“I thought so.”

“No place will take me, though.” Tom looked up. “I’m sure of that.”

“I will,” Felix said simply.

Tom blinked, then frowned. “I don’t want charity work, Kjellberg.”

“Oh, no, I have an actual job for you.” Felix resisted the urge to swallow and instead forced himself to continue. “I’m in need of a bodyguard. Not at all what you were doing before, but I’m sure you’re competent enough.”

A long pause.

“I thought you had two.”

“I did.”

“You need a third?”

“No.” Felix sighed. “There was an attempt on my life the night of the 24th, and he did his job at the cost of his own life.”

Oh, Cry.

“The other requested fewer hours so he can spend time with his wife, and, in a few months, his child.” Felix tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Thus, I’m in the market for a full-time bodyguard.”

“Oh.”

“Oh indeed.” Felix glanced over again, but returned his eyes to the road quickly. Morning traffic was about to pick up, and he didn’t want to be responsible for any more deaths. “So, Fischbach, what do you say?”

Tom was silent.

“You’d be required to live-in, especially considering the circumstances of the last attempt on my life, but I pay handsomely.” He paused, even as Tom hesitated to say something. “Neither you nor your mothers will find yourselves lacking.”

Tom sighed, and he closed his eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes. If you want, I’ll drop you off somewhere and look elsewhere for a bodyguard. I just don’t think you’ll have much luck finding employment elsewhere.”

Another long silence.

Then, “On one condition.”

“What would that be, dear Fischbach?” Felix glanced at him again.

He really did look a lot like Mark.

“Why me? Surely there are dozens more qualified men in Boston alone.”

Felix was silent himself for a minute, then sighed.

“We’ll discuss that in time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No. It’s not.”

A pause.

“Can you give me  _ some _ sort of answer?”

Felix glanced over once again.

“Your brother spoke very highly of you, Fischbach. His judgement is enough for me.”

Grief filled Tom’s face, and another silence stretched between them before Tom choked back a sob.

“He spoke about me enough that you heard it?”

“We spoke quite a lot,” Felix said softly. “Nearly every night.”

Slowly, Tom sat up straight, eyes widening.

“You  _ knew.” _

“I know a lot of things, and a lot of people. I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

Tom’s mouth opened and closed several times. Then, “You knew about the speakeasy.”

“It was a delightful place.” Felix shrugged. “Drinks were good. The company better.”

Tom gaped for a moment more, clearly trying to find words. Then a sob tore out of him.

“How long had he been doing this? How long had he been breaking the law?”

“Coming up on two years, if I remember correctly.”

“Two- two  _ years?!” _ Tom slumped, and his next words were mumbled. “How did I miss that?”

“He took great care to hide it.”

“Where- where did he even get alcohol to sell?” Tom buried his face in his hands.

Felix raised an eyebrow.

“That is a mystery.”

Just as quickly as Tom had put his face in his hands, he was taking it out.

“Wade- That’s why Wade was bootlegging. He was delivering it. How could I have missed that? The clues were all there.”

“Because the law says people involved in speakeasies are bad people, and Mark wasn’t and never will be a bad person.”

Tom swallowed.

“This is why he never said what his second job was, wasn’t it.”

“Probably.”

“Do you… do you know how he got hurt? That night, when Ethan called me…?”

Felix made a face.

“What did he tell you?”

“Mark didn’t tell me anything. Ethan didn’t say much either, when we spoke over the phone.” Tom closed his eyes. “Ethan was in on it too, wasn’t he?”

“Several people were.” Felix tilted his head. “What did he tell you?”

“That M-  _ he _ interfered with a fight between their coworkers.”

Felix thought about that for a second.

“That’s... not wrong.”

“It’s not all that happened, though, is it.”

“Well, I wasn’t there myself. Not that night. I had business to attend to.” Felix pulled onto the street where he lived. “But he told me about it after the fact. Two of the band members turned out to be members of the Irish and Italian mobs, and one of them found out about the other. Pulled a gun.”

Not one of Jack’s best moments.

“Members of both mobs went there?”

“I could usually count members from three mobs during any given night.” Felix shrugged. “Mark didn’t care. Fights were against the rules, and most of the time that was followed.”

Tom fell silent.

Felix didn’t say anything either.

They’d both been through enough without forcing conversation.


	70. The Queen of Spades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

_ Saturday, December 29, 1923; Wiishu’s Journal _

_ Seán, _

_ I miss you. _

_ Did you know that? _

_ We all do. Even Rhett, though he hasn’t said so in as many words. _

_ Everything is quiet around the warehouse these days. More than once, I’ve woken up to the sounds of muffled crying. _

_ The McLaughlin Boys, at least, are in good hands. Rhett and Link have stepped up. Killian is helping them run things now. I think you’d be okay with that. _

_ Sam asked me why we couldn’t have a funeral for you. They didn’t really seem to understand when I told them that we couldn’t find your body. Some are saying they don’t understand death, but I know that’s not the case. They’ve seen it before. All of the spuds have. _

_ None of us were prepared for yours. _

_ Where is your body, Seán? Where did it go? Were you able to drag yourself off the street? Did someone take you? If so, why? What do they want with your body? Why won’t they let us—let  _ me _ —mourn in peace? _

_ The streets were quiet when you died, at least for a couple days. Today, they were filled with the sounds of guns and Russian words, and they were washed with blood. _

_ Where are you, Seán? You promised to protect everyone you could. Why couldn’t you protect yourself? Why didn’t you see the shot coming? Why couldn’t it have missed? _

_ I want to talk with Molly, get what comfort I can, but I don’t dare leave the warehouse. Not right now. Not when I’m the only one he consistently recognizes. Besides, rumors have it she’s busy herself, dealing with the aftermath of what happened. _

_ I’ve heard the reports on what happened that night. So many men seem to want to remember you as you were right before you died. They talk of how quickly you took each shot, how you saved their lives by ending those of the mafia, of how you refused to leave a single person behind. _

_ I don’t want to remember you that way. _

_ I want to remember the way you smiled, the way you laughed. The music; the beat of the drums weaving through Freddy’s. The way you and PJ were friends, and how it seemed possible to take on the world. _

_ I want to remember the day I came to Boston. I want to remember the way Chica greeted me, your arms around me, feeling more at home in a foreign city than I had in years. I want to remember the place we ate at, and that letter from the then-mysterious Kjellberg. _

_ I want to remember the nights we had before the war, when we were young, when we were innocent and didn’t know the horrors of life. _

_ I want to remember the nights you cradled me after you got back, when you decided you had to come to America to pave the way for the rest of your family, when you were gentle and loving despite the sights that still haunted your eyes. _

_ I want to remember the stars, and the moon, and laying on our backs next to each other on the roof of this very warehouse, talking and laughing and loving. _

_ I want to remember the way you looked at me, as if I was the most important thing in the world. _

_ I want to remember the spuds trying to surprise you, jumping on you, playing with you, and you playing right back, pretending to be dead when they attacked. Giving them the chance to be children. _

_ I want to remember the way we twirled and danced during Couple’s Night, how we were in our own little world, and how the detective and his wife were all too happy to engage in a dance competition. _

_ I want to remember the soft croon of your singing when I was homesick, when I wanted to cross back across the Atlantic and return to my family and never return to this stinky, dirty city, and the way you were always willing to talk about it. _

_ I want to remember the joy you brought me. _

_ I want to remember the way the mob flourished with you in the lead. _

_ I want to remember that you never missed a letter, even when we had to write across an ocean and had a month between message and response. _

_ I want to remember the way you loved Chica, how you cared for her, how you were planning on giving her up to Mark so she could be the happiest dog in the world. _

_ I want to remember the way you visited Willy, even long after he was released from the hospital and settled into retirement. _

_ I want to remember the way you’ve reassured every member of the mob, made us all feel like an awkward extended family of some kind or another. _

_ I want to remember the way your eyes twinkled when you’d said something you found hilarious and I didn’t. I want to remember how you laughed at my jokes. _

_ I want to remember our breakfasts together. _

_ Our nights. _

_ Our love. _

_ I miss  _ you, _ Seán William McLoughlin, and I will never forget you. _

Wiishu quietly closed her journal and put it in its usual spot, then left the room.

“Is it time?” Link asked, looking up from reading with his children and several spuds.

“Almost. I still have to grab the supplies.”

Link nodded, turning back to the book in his hands.

Wiishu walked past him and to the medical supplies, picking up the bag that held what they needed, then slung it over her shoulder.

“Wait,” Billy said, walking up to her with a worried expression on his face. “I want to help.”

Wiishu grimaced.

“I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“I already saw him, remember? He can’t look worse now.”

“He certainly can.” Wiishu shook her head. “Not this time.”

Billy frowned.

“I do still need you to keep the other spuds away from the room. I know you’re used to playing near it, but he’s already having a hard enough time resting.”

Billy nodded.

“Got it.” He darted off.

Wiishu sighed and headed back the way she’d come.

This time, as she passed Link, the spuds were nowhere near.

Link stood.

“Now?”

Wiishu held up the bag by way of answer.

Link nodded and followed Wiishu into the room. Chica looked up slightly, and her tail wagged once, but she didn’t move from where she was laying next to the bed.

“You look him over,” Wiishu said, reaching into the bag. “I’ll get it mixed.”

The two set to work.


	71. No Wiggle Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

Jordan slipped through the doors of the Family’s headquarters, shaking snow off his coat and brushing it off the brim of his hat.

“Jordan,” Amanda chided gently. “I just got those floors clean.”

Jordan tipped his hat with a rueful grin.

“Sorry, but I thought it was better here than in PJ’s room.”

Amanda’s sharp look softened.

“Sophie is safe, then?”

Jordan nodded.

“And until further notice, I’m the only one here who knows where she is.” Him, Madame Foxglove, and Kjellberg.

“Good.” She turned to walk away, then paused. “I don’t know if PJ is awake. He was up and moving around earlier, actually—but I sent him to rest some more, so hopefully he’s doing that.”

“I doubt it. He’s been doing nothing  _ but _ rest for the past couple days. It’s bound to have driven him stir-crazy.”

“Just... make sure he’s resting.”

“I will.”

Jordan doubted he had the ability to make PJ rest if he didn’t want to—as evidenced by the months of PJ pushing himself to the edge of exhaustion—but hopefully the information he had would help ease some of PJ’s stress.

Jordan knocked quietly on PJ’s door before a quiet, “Come in” responded.

Jordan pushed his way into the room, closing the door behind him, and walked close to PJ’s bed, where he was laying half-propped up on pillows and staring at the ceiling.

“Heard you were up and about earlier.”

PJ smiled slightly, but it faded quickly.

“Not long enough, but I was too tired to continue.”

“Don’t push yourself,” Jordan chided. “You have to let yourself recover from more than being sick. It’ll take some time.”

PJ snorted.

“That sounds familiar.”

“Stop needing to recover around me and I’ll stop telling it to you.” Jordan buried his hands in his coat pockets. “In any case, I have a report to give you.”

PJ looked over for the first time, and Jordan internally sighed. While PJ was slowly starting to look better physically, there was something warring behind his eyes that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Not since the night of the firefight.

“Sophie’s safe.” Jordan finally sat in the chair across the room. “At the moment, one of Kjellberg’s people is guarding her. Foxglove, Kjellberg, and I are working together to make sure she’s never going to be left alone for someone to steal her away.”

PJ’s shoulders slumped, and a sigh of clear relief escaped him.

“She’s still in city limits. When you’re completely better—and by that, I mean actually well, and not just... not sick any more—I’ll take you to see her.”

“But-”

“Peej,” Jordan sighed, “you’re not going to do anyone any good if you start doing things before you’re ready. You can’t collapse like that again.”

“I hate resting,” PJ groaned.

“PJ.”

PJ ran a hand through his hair and scowled.

“I don’t want to.”

“So are you well?” Jordan raised an eyebrow and leaned forward in his seat. “Did you magically get better while I was gone?”

“Would you believe me if I said ‘yes’?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

Jordan tilted his head slightly, then sighed.

“What’s eating at you?”

PJ froze, then muttered a curse.

“Careful. People hear you talk like that, they might think you’re a mobster.”

PJ ignored the comment in favor of a sigh and a groan. He covered his face with his hands.

Jordan’s smile died.

“What happened?”

For a long time, there wasn’t any response. Then, a muffled, “Jack.”

“Oh.” Jordan leaned back in his chair. “You don’t think he made it, then.”

“I shot him in the face,” PJ said in a strained growl, “he didn’t have much of a chance  _ to _ survive.”

“You... you never know.”

Another long silence, then PJ’s shoulders began to shake. Jordan looked away, trying to give PJ some semblance of privacy. After a few minutes he pulled up his chair to the side of the bed and sat there, completely silent.

Finally, PJ stopped. He looked thoroughly exhausted now—physically, mentally, and emotionally—so Jordan stood to let him rest.

“I miss him,” PJ whispered.

Jordan just pulled the last of the blankets over PJ.

“It’ll hurt less with time.” He turned to leave.

“Jordan.”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Yes, PJ?”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Jordan sighed and hung his head for a moment, but turned around and walked back to the chair.

“Alright. I’ll keep watch while you rest.”

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, worrying over PJ and thinking about the future of the Family, before he got restless enough that he stood and walked to the window in the room.

It was still snowing.

Everything seemed uniform and muffled: the early afternoon light, the bare trees and snow-covered streets of Boston, and even emotion itself.

Jordan glanced over his shoulder to look at PJ, who seemed to be sleeping fitfully.

He quietly reached into his suit pocket and brushed his fingers over the letter there.

“It probably seems a little ridiculous to be thinking about in times like these,” he murmured, returning his gaze to the window, “but I can’t help it.” He sighed. “I’ve not told anyone here—the only ones to know are potatoes—but I don’t actually know who my father is.” 

It had never really bothered him before.

“Well, I guess I should be more specific. I know my father is one of two men.” He frowned slightly. “I don’t know which one. And at this point, I’m honestly not sure which one is worse.”

PJ still didn’t respond. Still asleep, then; or doing a fabulous job of faking it.

“My mother doesn’t know who it is, either.” Jordan sighed, leaning against the wall. “Just that...” He paused. “Well, that my father was either the godfather before you or... or Mir.”

Mir was out on the streets now; he was a free man. And Jordan was terrified of him. 

Mir had killed a lot of people. Granted, so had Jordan—but Mir was so much worse.

“Either way, neither of them knew it was a possibility. My mother made sure of that. And if he was the old godfather, it’s really a moot point by now. But if my father is Mir...” Jordan closed his eyes for a moment. “If he finds out, I can’t see any good coming out of it.”

No. It would be anything but good.

Jordan sighed again, watching the streets once more and trying desperately to avoid thinking about it.

A car pulled up. It wasn’t one Jordan recognized as belonging to a member of the Family, or even to one of the new recruits.

Jordan narrowed his eyes, and narrowed them even more when someone got out and started walking up to the house.

Dropping the curtain to cover the window once again, Jordan left the room—not noticing PJ opening his eyes to look at him thoughtfully as the door closed—and went to investigate.

What he found when he got to the entry room was Zombie and Yami both looking very much like they were face-to-face with a ghost, and an unfamiliar man standing in front of them.

_ “You recognize me,” _ the man said in Italian, his gaze resting on Zombie.

_ “You’re dead,” _ Zombie replied, his voice a bit strained.

The man laughed softly.  _ “No. You only thought that.” _

_ “It’s been thirteen years,” _ Zombie countered.  _ “You could be anyone.” _

_ “I could be. But I’m not.”  _ The unfamiliar man clasped his hands behind his back. The movement was a little stiff, Jordan couldn’t help but notice.  _ “I’m still me.” _

_ “What do you want?” _ Zombie asked.

_ “Nothing much. Just to speak with the godfather.” _ The man looked over to Jordan, then back at Zombie.  _ “Him, I don’t recognize.” _

_ “A lot has changed since you were last here.” _ Zombie eyed the man suspiciously, then turned to Jordan.  _ “Let him know there’s someone who wants to talk with him. I’ll verify he is who he says he is.” _

The man smiled, and something about the smile put Jordan on edge.  _ “Zombie, please. Would anyone impersonate me?” _

_ “And who does he say he is?”  _ Jordan asked.

_ “I’m Wiggles,”  _ the unknown man supplied.

Jordan didn’t even bother looking at him as he said,  _ “I wasn’t talking to you,” _ but he did mentally pause. Wiggles? The second-in-line who died and thus forced PJ into his role?

He didn’t look very dead.

Zombie’s jaw tightened, and Jordan dipped his head before returning the way he’d come. Another knock on the door later, he was pushing his way into PJ’s room and gently shaking him awake. 

“What is it?” PJ asked blearily.

“There’s a man here.” Jordan frowned. “He claims to be Wiggles.”

PJ blinked.

“Zombie seems to recognize him,” Jordan added. “And he speaks Italian better than I’ll ever be able to.”

“I...” PJ hesitated, then nodded and started moving to get out of bed. “I’ll see him in the office.”

Jordan nodded, heading back towards the main room.

This Wiggles was taller than he was, he noted, but that wasn’t too surprising. Most were.

He also didn’t move quite as quickly as Jordan would have expected. Granted, he’d been injured badly enough that everyone had thought he was dead—thirteen years ago, apparently; when Jordan was too young to even consider being in a mob—so maybe he was dealing with a lasting injury?

Wald  _ was _ good at dealing those out.

Good thing Jordan had shot him.

_ “He’ll meet you in the office,” _ he told Wiggles.  _ “I assume you know your way.” _

Zombie and Yami both looked alarmed at the way he was speaking, but neither said anything.

Wiggles chuckled, smiling that unnerving smile again.

_ “I assume you’ll be watching me to make sure I don’t wander elsewhere.” _

Jordan just gestured for Wiggles to lead the way.

Wiggles did indeed lead the way, with only the slightest bit of hesitation.

He also closed the door on Jordan, effectively blocking the way to PJ already in the room.

Jordan leaned against the wall next to the door. He doubted he’d be able to hear much of their conversation, if any; but if PJ shouted for help, Jordan would be close by.

Inside the room, PJ found himself face-to-face with someone who was unmistakably Wiggles—thirteen years older than he remembered, but still most definitely Wiggles.

A hint of a smile brushed Wiggles’ face.

_ “So you’re the one who ended up in control here.” _

_ “Much sooner than any of us hoped, but yes.” _ PJ gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk, though he’d yet to take a seat himself.

His face was very carefully controlled—and he was sure Wiggles’ was too—so he wouldn’t give anything away. He didn’t want to give Wiggles even the slightest amount of wiggle room to take any sort of advantage at all.

Would Wiggles acknowledge PJ’s position as the godfather? Or was he about to challenge him right here and now?

Wiggles sat.

Some tension left PJ, and he turned and sat himself. If Wiggles noticed how PJ was still trembling slightly, he didn’t give any sign of it.

_ “You’re much taller than I expected,”  _ Wiggles said casually.  _ “I shouldn’t be surprised, considering how tall you were when I last saw you.” _

PJ clasped his hands, partially to look intimidating and partially to keep his left one from shaking.

_ “Where have you been for thirteen years?” _

There was no doubt that this was Wiggles. It was the same face, the same voice, the same incredible amount of control he had over his entire being—PJ wouldn’t even be surprised if an explosive or two was hidden in Wiggles’ pocket. Though, PJ realized, that control Wiggles had over himself seemed more comfortable and not so strained as when they’d been younger.

_ “The first while, I spent recovering. Wald had still managed to do quite a bit of damage, and I almost drowned.” _ Wiggles frowned slightly.  _ “After that... I was hunting him down. I had revenge to extract.” _

PJ leaned back in his chair. Something about this wasn’t quite ringing true, but maybe he was reading Wiggles incorrectly. It  _ had _ been a while, after all.

_ “Wald has been dead for two years,”  _ PJ said instead.  _ “I watched him die myself.” _ It was a very vivid memory.  _ “Surely you knew about that.” _

Wiggles dipped his head.

_ “I found out soon enough.” _

_ “Why didn’t you return then?” _

Wiggles chuckled softly.

_ “A pretty face will distract any of us.” _

PJ raised an eyebrow.

_ “Oh?” _ He hadn’t thought of Wiggles as one to avoid the Family for a relationship.

Wiggles raised an eyebrow of his own.

_ “From the rumors I’ve heard, you of all people would understand.” _

PJ raised his other eyebrow to hide his sudden flash of concern for Sophie’s safety.

_ “I never avoided the Family.” _

_ “No. You didn’t. You were always more duty-bound than I.” _

PJ leaned forward.

_ “Then why are you here now?” _

Wiggles shrugged.

_ “I came to my senses. I’m back; for good.” _

_ “And do you want to lead the Family?” _ He didn’t know what the years had done to Wiggles, but surely he was a much better fit for godfather than PJ himself. And maybe... maybe if Wiggles took over, he could spend more time with Sophie. She was about all he had left now, after what had happened with Freddy’s—and killing Jack.

Wiggles shook his head.

_ “I’m thirteen years out of practice, kiddo. I wouldn’t do anyone any good. I’ll go wherever you put me.” _

PJ debated for a moment, some part of him wishing he’d managed to wiggle out of being the godfather, then nodded slowly.

_ “We’re in need of a  _ capo.  _ None of the  _ soldati _ are quite prepared for it.” _

_ “A  _ capo,” Wiggles mused.  _ “I can do that.” _

PJ nodded, smiling faintly.

_ “Welcome back to the Family.” _

Wiggles smiled back, though there was something in his expression that PJ couldn’t quite bring himself to trust.

There was something about  _ Wiggles _ that PJ couldn’t quite bring himself to trust.

But what was done was done, and the Family would only benefit from Wiggles. Whatever secret Wiggles was keeping about his years away, it would have to wait.

As for Wiggles? He only wished he’d gotten the chance to tell Vanoss, Toonz, and Del he’d survived.


	72. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)

MatPat’s entire body was numb as he stumbled inside his and Gar’s office. He’d stopped shivering some time ago, and he didn’t think that was a good thing.

He dropped into Gar’s chair with a flop, numb fingers clumsily struggling with his coat buttons. The damn thing was heavy; soaked through with slush and melting snow.

Gar had disappeared early on the 25th. It was now late in the evening of the 31st. He’d been gone for six days—almost a whole  _ week _ —and MatPat hadn’t gotten any closer to finding him.

He’d spent over six hours walking through the snow storm today, alone, looking for any clues that could possibly lead him to Gar.

A violent shiver shook his whole frame as he started to warm up. He finally wrestled his soaked coat off himself before pulling himself up in the chair.

He hadn’t found any signs of Gar on the streets, and Gar’s father had no idea where he was, which left MatPat with very few options.

He opened the drawer and pulled out Gar’s journal.

He’d cleaned the worst of the blood off of it days ago, but some of it seemed permanently stained into the leather cover: a permanent reminder that MatPat had failed Gar. 

He’d been holding back from reading it. No matter how much it might help him find Gar, it felt like such a dramatic invasion of privacy that... well... MatPat didn’t want to do that to Gar.

He’d been the one to lecture Gar about trust, after all.

He didn’t really have much of a choice now, though, did he? The longer Gar was gone—the longer Mir had Gar—the worse it would be. Who knew what Mir was doing to Gar? 

All too likely, torturing him in some way. Was Gar just going to show up dead in the streets? Or, worse, on MatPat’s, or Gar’s father’s, doorstep? If he did, what condition would his body be in?

And how long did MatPat have until it happened?

MatPat muffled the sob that tore out of him. He  _ had _ to think about this—he  _ had _ to prepare himself for the worst. He didn’t know what was happening to Gar. He didn’t know if Gar was even  _ alive _ right now. 

He hoped so.

But he didn’t  _ know. _

He didn’t know how long he sat there, trying not to sob. There were still quite a few people in the building.

He’d heard the rumors; the whispers that had started as soon as Gar was reported missing.

_Bad luck._ _Cursed._

_ Murderer. _

He’d only heard that last one once, but it echoed through his mind since. Sure, he hadn’t killed Gar, or Jason, or Steph; but... two of them had disappeared- and Jason had died in the hospital- and it was kind of... He could see why they would be suspicious.

He’d be suspicious of himself under other circumstances.

MatPat buried his head in his hands, his fingers tangling into his hair.

He sat there for a long time, slowly shaking less as he warmed up and dried out.

He was snapped out of the never-ending cycle of agonizing thoughts by a loud knock. The door creaked open slowly, and MatPat looked up to see the temporary chief standing there, holding an envelope in his hands.

“This was delivered for you. Dyke said it was for one of your investigations?” The temporary chief walked in and held the envelope out to MatPat.

“Oh, thank you.” MatPat hesitantly took it. What information could Dyke possibly be giving him? He didn’t have any ongoing investigations at this point—well, besides searching for Gar and Steph; and searching for Jason’s murderer. But nothing  _ official _ .

“Do you...” The temporary chief trailed off, then pushed forward. “Do you want to talk about him?” He gestured at the name card on the desk—not MatPat’s, but Gar’s. Fortunately, he didn’t ask why MatPat wasn’t sitting at his own desk.

MatPat tightened his grip on the envelope, crinkling it slightly. “No. Not right now. Not yet.”

The temporary chief just nodded. “Let me know if you need help with anything: special permits, help covering ground, time off work...”

MatPat shook his head.

“I’ll be fine, sir.” He would be fine as soon as he knew Gar was fine.

Which meant he wasn’t.

Not that he was going to admit to it.

The temporary chief nodded again, then gave MatPat a final smile and walked off, closing the door again behind him.

MatPat turned the envelope over in his hands, still trying to remember what he’d done that would get Dyke to send him results of some kind.

Maybe… And then he remembered.

Jason.

His fingers were shaking all over again as he opened it and slid out the results.

It was a formal report, so it included a bunch of technical jargon that MatPat would read later—but skimmed over now to get to what he was really interested in.

A breath caught in his throat as he found the line.

_ Cause of Death: Morphine Overdose; Wood Alcohol Poisoning _

_ Notes: No morphine was supposed to be given to Parker. Foul play evident. _

Air sighed out of MatPat all at once, and he stared at those two lines for far longer than he’d like to admit.

Foul play. Morphine.

Someone had killed Jason— _ after _ he’d been taken to the hospital.

Maybe- maybe they’d been trying before. Maybe that’s what sent him to the hospital in the first place, so the murderer could finish the job properly. Mark wouldn’t have served wood alcohol to his customers—MatPat knew that much about the man. Something had to have happened out of the ordinary—though the hospital workers wouldn’t have noted anything out of place. So many people died of wood alcohol these days.

But morphine.

_ Morphine. _

Jason’s death had been very deliberate. Jason had been  _ murdered. _

But  _ why? _

And who had done it?

...Were they planning on doing it again?

And if so, who was the next target?

MatPat set the autopsy report on the desk and slumped in his seat. Gar’s seat, technically.

Jason had been murdered, Steph had been kidnapped, and Gar had disappeared after suffering what could easily have been a fatal wound.

Maybe he  _ was _ cursed.


	73. Antebellum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Check out our Spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/22mfdrvw5huhaaty7tlvhfhla/playlist/6PmTsFV46BDlEK8PYdtN0V)
> 
> Today's addition:
> 
> Mr. Syms - John Coltrane

All that remained of the Tiny Box these days was scorched rubble. It was stable enough to walk on (now that everything had cooled and the rubble searched for human remains) but nobody had reason to.

Two sets of footsteps crunched on the rubble: one heavier and steady; one much lighter, and much more hesitant.

“Mir, why did we need to come here?” The second person sounded concerned.

The first laughed.

“The Fischbachs have been ruined. I can exact my revenge with nobody caring, now. As for you...” Shoes walked a bit further into the rubble, and, after a moment, heels followed.

“What are your plans?”

The two came to a stop in the middle, staring up at the waning crescent moon. The second replied.

“Our common goal is Kjellberg, now. You want his new bodyguard dead; I want him.”

Mir nodded slowly.

“Yes.” He glanced over at his companion. Mir wasn’t a physically intimidating man, but his companion was even less so: far too feminine and small for anyone to be concerned.

“The assassins didn’t work, then?”

“Not in the way they were intended. Three of them are dead, but the fourth reported Kjellberg’s Faceless man is now dead as well. Unfortunately-” the second person’s face twisted into a bitter expression- “that leaves Kjellberg alive and well.”

“It will do.” Mir returned his gaze to the moon. A small smile crept onto his face. “I do love tormenting the Faceless.”

His companion seemed hesitant at that, but said nothing.

Then, “I need time.”

“Oh?” Mir looked over again.

“Hiring the Faceless wiped out most of the money I had saved. I need time to save up if I’m to help you on my own front.”

Mir examined his cigar absently, then raised an eyebrow.

“How much time?”

His companion sighed.

“A few months? No longer than half a year. Business has picked up enough that I’ve had to hire someone new, but he’s more than competent and should bring in a large profit boost.”

Mir tilted his head and thought for several minutes, letting the space between them fill with silence and cigar smoke.

Finally, he nodded.

“No longer than the end of June, then, before we implement the next stage of the plan.”

“Are you sure it will work?”

Mir chuckled.

“Oh, it will.”

“The younger Fischbach died, though. We can’t use him.”

Mir’s mouth curled into a most unpleasant smile.

“Perhaps. I wouldn’t underestimate him, though. They’re a crafty family.”

“And the detectives? The younger one is missing. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that.”

“No—however much I wish I had. I need them together. If he’s not turned up in a few months, I’m sure Detective Patrick will be assigned a new partner. He’ll work just as well when the time comes.”

The companion huddled into their coat, frozen mist curling into the air with each breath.

“It’s been almost five years,” the companion murmured, as if unable to believe it. “We’ve been working towards this for five years.”

“Trust me,  _ tsvetóchek, _ it will be over before the sixth anniversary of your parents’ death. Fischbach, and Kjellberg—we will paint the streets in their blood.”

A pause, a breath, and then a smile twisted onto the companion’s face.

“Good.”

The two stood there a moment longer, rubble of the Tiny Box underfoot, staring at the disappearing moon, until Mir smiled to himself. They were beginning a new round in this game of theirs, and a lot of the major cards from the last round were gone for good. Several remained, but what did that matter when you were the King?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long ride, hasn't it.
> 
> Well, it's not over yet.
> 
> The reason this final chapter took so long to get out is because we wanted to give you guys something to go with it. So, after you subscribe to the series (because there's more to the story and that's how you'll get updates), [here's a YouTube link for you to follow to see what we made.](https://youtu.be/PLHVKzD6CnI)


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